


Echoing a Song

by KChan88



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:16:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: There’s legends in France. Legends about an underground prison called Toulon. A dark, dreadful prison that shreds memories and dreams, but that might just have a little bit of magic. Forgotten magic from the old world. There’s legends about people, too. There’s one about a woman, trapped in the prison for half the year, the prison where a cold, irreproachable guard with a vulnerable heart held sway. There’s one about a man, who escaped from the prison, and disappeared. And there’s another about a young man, who went down to the prison to save his friends from a terrible fate. His weapon? A melody. A melody that came to him, and a poem that belonged to his friend. Together, they made a song.One day, all of those stories became one, and a myth was born. Hope broke into hell and shook the world, even if there was a bit of tragedy to it. That myth drips gold when you speak in into the world, and always leaves the sound of a bittersweet melody behind.A Les Mis Hadestown AU





	1. To The World We Dream About

**Author's Note:**

> This will come in two parts! The second half will be posted a week or so after the first. This verse was co-created with the lovely flaviamarquesart on Tumblr!

Would you believe it if I told you there is a railroad in an old, hollowed out Parisian sewer tunnel?

Would you believe it if I told you it leads to a place caught between life and death? A place where France sends the people it doesn't want anymore? Rebels. Prostitutes. Thieves. The list goes on. It’s not always about the gravity of the crime. It’s more about the danger the criminal poses to the status quo. It’s about the people who have that spark in their eyes. You know the one. Toulon, and everyone involved in it, aims to snuff that out.

Well, at least that used to be true. And not so long ago.

At one time there wasn’t a difference between hell and Toulon. Not really.

Things are different now. Not perfect, but better. Some things that are gold _can_ stay, as it turns out.

You might not believe me, but the myths about Toulon are imprinted on the French memory. At least enough to tell stories about it. Dark, old, dusty stories that people know and don’t know all at once, because they change just a little bit every time they’re told. Stories that stick under your ribs like the sharp edge of a knife. Stories that glimmer with the silver-gray glow of ghosts.

People leave sous near the railroad tracks in the drained-out sewer tunnel, hoping they might pay for the freedom of their loved ones trapped below. I’m not entirely sure where that myth comes from—maybe from the Greeks—but people hold onto it anyway. In the beginning, people were released from Toulon with shadows behind their eyes. Then one day, once you went down, there was no coming back up.

No one escapes from Toulon. 

No one except me. 

Long ago, my name was Jean Valjean. Some might know me as Madeline. And yet others as Fauchelevent. 

I was a bread thief, once, punished for the unforgiveable crime of feeding my family. A broken window. A stolen loaf. Nothing more. The fight in me was the real problem, because when I tried escaping from normal prisons one-too-many times, they sent me to Toulon.

Forever.

I’ll save the story of how I broke out for later, but you should know one thing.

If you’re caught escaping from Toulon, or if you commit any crime egregious enough while imprisoned there, your punishment is losing your memory. You forget who are. You forget your loved ones. You forget the things that brought you joy. You forget the warmth of sunlight on your face. You forget the smell of a new morning, dewy and fresh and full of opportunity. You forget the thousand tiny things that might make you think of rebelling ever again. You remember that you were someone, but you don’t know who.

It takes your very humanity from you.

And then one day, you die.

Memories are hazy in Toulon as it is, especially if you’ve been there a long time, but that particular punishment, well…I saw a few who underwent it, and it still makes me shudder. They call it the River of Forgetting, a monster of a thing powered by stolen memories.

That’s enough about me, though. I need to tell you about a few other important people before we get started.

There were once legends about a woman named Fantine, who lived half the year in Toulon and half the year in Paris as part of an agreement with the Chief Guard who still manages the entire place. 

Javert. 

I was there when she made that unique, never-repeated deal, the fateful words searing my own soul, tattered with memories of that wretched place. Fantine had struck a man in the street, you see. Bambatois. I intervened then, and took her back to the hospital, drawing Javert’s anger and attention toward me. Bambatois came forward later with plans to say that Fantine had attempted to kill him, and he had the power to have her put on trial for it. So it was either Javert’s deal, or facing a trial for charges she could never fight against. Ill as she was with some kind of influenza—something we initially feared was consumptive—and with the walls closing in around her, there wasn’t much choice. Javert soon had her in shackles and sent her off with guards to Toulon while he dealt with me.

His first mistake of course, was assuming I wouldn’t fight. Assuming that all of my reserves had been vanquished during my escape from Toulon, and from him years before. The walk out of there alone had given me nightmares, and I had certainly gained years, but I was more human after I left Toulon, and that only gave me more hope, not less.

Javert learned that when I knocked him out during the carriage ride, making as fast as I could to Montfermeil to find Cosette, before disappearing into a convent in Paris. Javert should have sent me straight to Toulon instead, but he wanted to prove to his superiors that the famous Madeline was a convict before he erased my memory in the river.

Why did Javert make a deal? Only he really knows. But I suspect I have an idea. We’ll get to that later.

I remember him striding into the room in a storm of rage, shouting at Fantine and telling her she would never see her child again, shouting that I was really nothing more than an escaped convict from Toulon. For a brief, horrible moment, I thought her ill body finally gave out from fright. It turned out she only fainted, but I remember the look on Javert’s face. I remember him staring at Fantine as if he was really seeing someone else. I still remember it, that glimmer of the past.

And so it was set, six months above and six months below, a singular thing where Toulon was concerned.

Except, when Fantine came above to Paris, she couldn’t talk to the one person she loved most. 

Her daughter, Cosette. 

Why?

Because Javert couldn’t have the public knowing about the deal he made, not in any way someone could prove. A known moment of weakness would mar his entire reputation, and then everything might come crumbling down. So Fantine couldn’t tell anyone the truth of who she was when she came back above, least of all Cosette. If she did, she would be trapped in Toulon forever. So she could only look upon Cosette from afar. Fantine didn’t learn that piece of the deal until she got to Toulon, and maybe that’s because Javert didn’t decide it until then._ I_ didn’t learn it until she came back above and I met her in disguise near the railroad tracks, hoping to let her know I had indeed pulled Cosette from the Thenardier’s grasp.

She could tell me the truth of it only because I was there when she made the deal.

But legends are a funny thing, always slipping out of our grasp and taking on lives of their own. Javert couldn’t do anything about the legends, but he could keep his iron grip on Fantine’s freedom, pretending to forget his own moment of something that might have been kindness.

I looked after Cosette, instead. I promised Fantine I would, in the brief minutes we had before Javert sent her with guards to Paris and the railroad that goes _down down down_ to the depths of the earth. In that moment I didn’t know if I could get to Cosette or escape from Javert and Fantine didn’t either, but I promised, anyway.

Railroads are new in most of the world, but Toulon’s had one since I can remember first hearing about the place. I saw Fantine once a year in those days, providing her with the money she needed to live above, though I suspect she spent most of it on the women she sheltered in Paris, trying to save them from her own fate. I told her about Cosette, and she told me about Toulon. She couldn’t bear to stay long, but she took those new stories about Cosette with her, and sometimes I caught her watching from far enough away at night, wary of accidentally breaking the rule that held the danger of condemning her forever. She could only do it infrequently when she lost the guards who quietly tailed her in the bustle of Paris, or it might have led Javert to my doorstep.

I used to see her outside the convent. Then later, outside the house on the Rue Plumet while Cosette sat in her garden. Always at night. Always just before Cosette was about to go to bed. I saw her there more than once, looking through the gate like a ghost in the dark, always from a safe enough distance. Safe enough, I say, because there was always a risk.

If you blinked, Fantine would be gone, and sometimes I wondered if I really saw her at all.

In the early days I gave Fantine as many stories about Toulon as I could bear to tell, hoping it might give her some courage to survive in a place where people died all the time. Truth be told, Fantine knew me better than anyone back then, even if I only spoke to her once every six months.

Fantine is one of the bravest, most resilient people I’ve ever known. Still, I wanted to offer her something during those hard days. A way to say _you are not alone_.

Why didn’t she run, you ask? Well, because guards were usually tailing her, when she was in Paris. And if she ran, if she got caught, she would never be free again.

But I'm here to tell you another part of this old tale. 

The part of the tale when things changed.

When the earth rumbled beneath our feet and every part of France felt the tremble. 

There's a name you should know, that’s important to the story.

Enjolras.

I suppose I might call him a _priest of the ideal_.

He was a young man willing to go to hell with the hope of saving his friends. With the hope that he might change things. I won’t tell you the end before we start at the beginning, though. But know that he was brave. And know that his friends were, too.

Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Feuilly. Jean Prouvaire. Bahorel. Bossuet. Joly. Grantaire.

Enjolras’ voice could shake the heavens, and Jean Prouvaire’s poetry could make your very bones rattle. All nine of those young men—Enjolras, and the eight he went to save—share something beautiful. A family. A sort of courage you don’t find every day. I want to make sure the world never forgets them, even as time erodes memory and history is written by those it deems the victors, forgetting the ones who paved the way.

This part of the story begins with an uprising on a hot June day. It begins with the valor of young men whose names I hold close to my chest. It begins when my path crossed with Javert’s once more, and a mercy that made the first crack in his irreproachable soul.

Later, Enjolras would take that cracked soul and shatter the stone around it. I didn’t see it myself, but I heard about it so vividly I feel like I did. I can certainly imagine it.

The stories say there is a little bit of magic buried deep within the ground of Toulon. Magic from long ago, hidden beneath the earth. Magic turned dark and poured into the waters of a river that made you forget everything and everyone you ever loved.

I think Enjolras drew the magic out, and turned it back to gold.

This is a story about love. About friendship. About changing the world bit by bit. Day by day. One voice cannot change the world all at once, but it can be the spark to start the story again. Hope is an eternal force, we just have to remember its power.

This is a story that changed my life. 

It's a story that saved it. 

* * *

Valjean shoved Javert into the alley near the barricade, feeling like the convict he used to be as a wave of boiling hot rage crashed over him. The heat receded when he pulled back, searching for a soothing memory to calm him. A vision of Cosette playing the piano overtook his mind, seeing her smiling absentmindedly as she’d played a song she knew by heart, her fingers trailing over the keys with ease. He’d come here for her. For her happiness. For the Pontmercy boy he didn’t even really know aside from their fleeting meeting here at the barricade, but knew he must save nevertheless.

He’d told the Pontmercy boy his identity soon after he came to the barricade, giving him the National Guard uniform he came in with and sending him out into the streets.

_Go to Cosette_, Valjean told him, pushing the address of their apartment into Marius’ surprised hands. _Go there, and have the doctor down the street tend to your head wound. Keep the uniform on for safety so he’ll believe the story. Tell Cosette where I am, and wait for me._

Valjean didn’t know exactly why he’d stayed, after that, but something told him he was needed.

He pulled out his knife, with the intention of cutting Javert’s bonds. Javert laughed. He laughed, and it sounded strange. It was a cracked, broken sound, humor twisted dark with hatred. Valjean didn’t hate Javert, but Javert hated _him_.

Or perhaps feared him. That might be closer to the truth.

Javert was the most frustrating person alive. Javert was partly responsible for some of Valjean’s worst memories.

Still, Valjean felt sorry for him. Valjean saw something in him that Javert couldn’t see himself.

He saw the ability to change. Maybe he saw it because Bishop Myriel saw it in him. Maybe that life-changing experience had attuned him to it.

The sound of Javert’s voice drew him back into the present.

“A knife. Of course. How right that a convict, the only convict to ever escape my grasp, would stab me in a dark alley. Fitting.”

“I’m not here to kill you, Javert,” Valjean said. “Give me your hands.”

Javert’s eyes widened. “What? Of course you’re here to kill me. I didn’t take you for the sort to draw it out.”

“I’m not.” Valjean kept his voice low, not wanting to be overheard. “Now give me your hands.”

When Javert didn’t comply, Valjean seized his wrists, cutting through the thick rope and watching it fall in tatters to the ground.

Javert stared at him, and Valjean thought he saw something like a tremble in the Chief Guard’s hands.

“This is _farce_,” Javert whispered. “What do you want? I’m not breaking Fantine’s contract, if that’s what you’re after. Even if I wanted to, it’s beyond my mandate.”

“Don’t lie,” Valjean replied, his voice a harsh, grating noise he barely recognized. “You have your superiors and I know that, but they give you leeway in Toulon to do as you see fit, and you made that deal on your own. One day, you’re going to realize all the wrong you’ve done Fantine. If I could go down there to your hell and take her out myself without risking leaving Cosette with no one at all, I would. Maybe one day when she’s safe and married, I will.”

“Kill me then!” Javert whispered in that odd way where it sounded almost like a shout. “Then you might get what you want.”

Valjean stepped forward, shaking his head. “No. That will only mean the replacement of you with someone else. Someone who might never change.”

Javert laughed again, with the low, sharp tune of a bark. “And you’re betting that _I _will?”

“I know the stories,” Valjean said. “The stories about you. You were born in Toulon, weren’t you? You told me that in Montreuil before you realized who I was, when you were taking some leave from that wretched place because the darkness almost killed you. Said you were the best person to be in-charge of it because you knew it so well. I still don’t know why you told me that. It seemed like a strangely vulnerable thing.” 

“How did you get out?” A growl escaped Javert’s mouth as he side-stepped the question entirely. “Tell me. Tell me _now_.”

Valjean shook his head a second time. “It doesn’t matter how. It only matters that I did.”

“Why are you doing this?” Javert asked the question again, something like a tremble in his voice. “Taking down Toulon’s Chief Guard would win you accolades from every ne'er-do-well in France.”

“Because I am going to show you that not everything in this world is cruel.” Valjean cocked his pistol, preparing to shoot into the air. “And hope that might start to change you, though I know it won’t be enough. Your soul’s been in darkness too long for that. Besides, killing you and replacing you won’t make a difference to those poor wretches trapped in Toulon. Something has to change. Something bigger. Maybe it starts with you.”

An urgent, panicked sound ripped through the air like a knife just as Valjean made to pull the trigger.

The sound of several young men shouting a name.

_Enjolras! _

Then, the sound of something hard smacking into the back of a human head.

The sound of a body—dead or alive, Valjean didn’t know—hitting the paving stones with a dull, sickening thud.

Javert leaned around the wall of the alley just out of sight of the insurgents, watching Enjolras fall to the ground. His gaze lingered on the boy for a long moment, and Valjean wondered why. Had they interacted while the rebels held Javert captive?

That was the thing about being the master of an underworld prison. Everyone knew your name, but less knew your face outright, so it wasn’t a surprise to Valjean that Javert might be here, searching for more souls to drag down to Toulon.

“I would have made sure _that _one ended up in Toulon,” Javert muttered, a little too much malice in his voice, like he might have been covering up something else. Intrigue. Pity. Sympathy. Valjean wasn’t sure. “But I suppose he’ll end up in a different kind of hell instead. I heard some of the soldiers calling the boy Apollo, though he is terribly mortal, I see.”

Valjean’s eyes flickered to the sliver of the barricade he could see, watching Enjolras’ limp form as Javert turned back toward the moment at hand.

For just a second, he saw Enjolras’ eyes open before falling closed again.

He was alive.

Valjean fired, the shot shredding the air around them as the bullet scraped the wall, making Javert jump and preventing him from looking toward Enjolras a second time.

“Go.” Valjean dropped the single word, hearing it splash down into the river of mercy unleashed at Javert’s feet.

And Javert looked like a drowning man.

As he watched Javert walk—he had too much dignity to run—down the alley, Valjean knew he had a purpose at this barricade again, now that Marius was safe with Cosette.

Help Enjolras, whatever that might entail.

Enjolras’ earlier speech had soared into the air with the otherworldly beauty of a hymn at midnight, the words lit gold with sunlight even as dawn abandoned the barricade. It had _almost_ been a song. Valjean remembered hearing Enjolras sing something softly to himself as he stood in the corner of the barricade alone, clutching a piece of paper in his hands with a poem scribbled across in bright black ink, the name _Jean Prouvaire _scrawled along the bottom. Enjolras had sung a few words then with a light, eerie tenor, and Valjean wondered now if maybe the lad might have been trying to set it to music. 

* * *

Enjolras jolted up from…sleep? No, unconsciousness. He’d passed out, hadn’t he? Once, and then again later on.

He sat up, his head giving an angry throb as he did so, feeling toward the back where the wound was and realizing someone must have bandaged it.

He looked around.

Was he…alone?

Enjolras remembered the end of the barricade in dull flashes of smoke and spattered wood. He remembered trying to get up when he heard the pained shouts of his friends and comrades falling to the merciless gunfire. But when he’d tried to go out the door of the room where he lay with the injured, dead, and dying, someone pulled him back. He didn’t remember who, but the touch hadn’t been familiar.

He also remembered the sound of…chains? Yes, chains scraping across the paving stones in an unsettling quiet. He remembered soldiers coming into the Corinthe, checking for anyone who might be alive. He remembered a man lying next to him, almost covering him and barely breathing. A man with a shock of white hair.

Had he only imagined it?

Only, no, because he saw that man in the corner of the room right now. That same man with the white hair. The man who’d shown up at the barricade and helped Marius. Who’d blocked the grapeshot with a mattress.

“You’re awake,” the man said, coming over to him. “How’s your head?”

“I…fine.” A lie, but Enjolras didn’t possess time for that.

He was alone, and he shouldn’t be.

“Where are my friends?” Enjolras asked, getting up and willing the nausea back, his legs taking a moment to stabilize beneath him. “What happened?”

“We need to be away from here before I answer that. Can you walk?”

Enjolras nodded, because he has to walk. He appeared uninjured other than the head wound, but that hurt like the devil, and he knew he was probably concussed.

“Wait.” Enjolras paused, leaning on the wall for a moment. “How can I trust you? That man, Javert, he snuck into our barricade and pretended he was one of us. Pretended he was one of us when he was really the Chief Guard of that wretched Toulon place people tell stories about. You…you were supposed to kill him. Did you? We heard the shot.” 

“I did not kill Javert. You may trust I am not any ally of his, either.”

“How?”

The man stared at him as if deciding the risks of sharing a deep, dark secret, and Enjolras is so _confused._

“Because I am the only man to ever escape Toulon.”

Enjolras knew the legends of Toulon well enough. Some people didn’t think it existed because no one ever came back. But he knew it was real. He knew it in his bones like some kind of strange fate.

Enjolras took the mysterious man’s arm and followed him toward an old sewer entrance, stepping inside what looked like an old, hollowed out tunnel with…

Were those railroad tracks?

“Do you remember what happened?”

Enjolras clenched his fist, wanting an explanation of what was happening now, and not what happened already, but he answered anyway. “Gavroche was shot and Bahorel climbed over the barricade to get him before the soldiers did anything worse. I leaned over the top and started shooting at anyone who shot at them, and then one of the soldiers knocked me in the head with…I suppose it was the butt of a bayonet. I remember someone sneaking Gavroche out, somehow. But monsieur, what…why am I here? Why was I not arrested?”

The man looked at him, tears shimmering in his kind, haunted eyes. Tears for him? Why...

“Are my friends dead?” Enjolras’ breath caught in his chest, a heaviness descending upon him like the weight of a thousand metal shackles. “Are they all dead?”

“No.”

The single word wasn’t enough reassurance, and Enjolras felt a strange mixture of dread and relief flooding his veins.

“Monsieur where are they? I have to get to them.” Enjolras realized he still didn’t know this stranger’s name.

“You can’t, son.” The man’s face twisted into a grimace. “They weren’t just taken to jail. Well, some of your other comrades were, but the eight you mean were taken to Toulon. I saw them getting dragged away. I’m so sorry. If you need a place to stay, you can come with me. My name’s Fauchelevent, by the way.”

There was a lie buried deep in the man’s voice, Enjolras could hear it, but that wasn’t the point right now.

“He took them to that hell without a trial?” Enjolras’ voice exploded into the deadly quiet around them. “I’ll go down there. I’ll go down there and get them out. You said you escaped so you must know how. Tell me, monsieur. Please tell me.”

“Enjolras.” Fauchelevent’s voice cracked, and he placed a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “I know how you must feel.”

Enjolras pushed his hand off, unable to bear anyone touching him. “No you don’t.”

That’s not fair, Enjolras realized. He had no idea how Fauchelevent might feel.

_Think,_ he reminded himself. _Think. Be calm_.

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras shook his head, hoping it might clear his mind. “I only...I have to go down there. And I’ll figure it out myself, if I have to. But I would appreciate your help.”

Fauchelevent sighed, releasing held back words when he spoke again. “Javert said he would have taken you down there, if he could. He thought you dead, you see, when you were struck in the head. I wanted to protect you from that place. I know too well what it’s like, and I’d hate to see someone with your spirit trapped down there.”

Enjolras clasped Fauchelevent’s hand, his head throbbing and his heart overflowing with emotion. “You are so kind. For helping Marius and for wanting to help me. But I must go. I cannot...I cannot leave them down there. Not without an answer.”

_I cannot be without them_, Enjolras thought, keeping the words to himself.

Fauchelevent squeezed Enjolras’ hand before letting go, and Enjolras took his first real glance around. There _were_ railroad tracks here. Combeferre had spent a lot of time talking about the new railroads in France that opened just a year ago, wondering—with some bitterness—at how Toulon seemed to have them long before. It was a rumor anyway, and now Enjolras saw the truth of it for himself.

Railroad tracks. In a sewer. It did defy expectation and, frankly, reason.

And yet…

“Were you singing at the barricade? I thought I heard you.” Fauchelevent’s voice cuts into the quiet and Enjolras turns back around, tilting his head in question.

“Oh. I used to sing in a choir, when I was a boy. I learned to write music, then, and I still fiddle with it occasionally, though I don’t have much time, anymore. I’m not very good with any lyrics.”

“Your speech I heard indicated otherwise,” Fauchelevent argued. “It was lovely. Enough to inspire an old soul like mine.”

“Oh,” Enjolras repeated, feeling sheepish. He’s been told plenty he has an astonishing voice and a way with words, but he’s never really thought to join the two things. “Well, that’s different, I suppose. The words just come to me when I feel inspired that way, and writing the words to a song is different than writing a political pamphlet. Sometimes when I can’t sleep I write melodies, but I can’t seem to find words, then, like I can when I’m speaking.” Enjolras smiled, thinking of Jean Prouvaire with a pang. “My friend Jean Prouvaire is a masterful poet. He never seems to lack them.”

Fauchelevent pulled something out of his pocket, and Enjolras recognized the few sheets of paper immediately.

Prouvaire’s poems.

“I picked these up when they fell out of your pocket,” Fauchelevent told him. “It was one of these I saw in your hand earlier, and I thought maybe you were trying to think of a melody for it.”

Enjolras took the poems with a trembling hand, remembering the faint tune of a melody that had played in his head as night fell over the barricade. “I was, a bit absentmindedly, I think. But monsieur, why do you ask?”

Fauchelevent frowns, looking grave. “I think you might find those useful if I send you to Toulon. Music. Poetry. The love I heard in your words earlier. A song. Your voice reminded me of a hymn, when you spoke. Take that, and your friend’s poetry with you.” Valjean paused. “Are you certain you want to go? I can’t promise you’ll return.”

Enjolras stood up straighter, the loss of the barricade thrumming through him like a mournful tune, the loss of his friends making it go sharply dissonant in his ear.

“I have to, Monsieur Fauchelevent. They are my family, and I know they would come after me. They put them in there without word, without trial. Something has to change.”

Something about the words made Fauchelevent smile, and he reached for something in his pocket.

A sou.

A sou sharpened like a knife.

“I agree,” Fauchelevent said. “Something does have to change. I found this coin one day, laying on the ground. The train had run over it and sharpened the edges enough to pick the locks leading out of Toulon. I’m giving it to you now.”

Enjolras took the coin, noticing the still sharp point, even if the rest has worn down over time.

“It’s a very long walk,” Fauchelevent continued. “A few hours, and steep on the incline in places. And there’s something else you should know, too. There’s a woman there, Fantine. I'll leave most of the story to her, but she’s been down there for years, allowed to come back above for six months at a time...”

“Wait,” Enjolras interrupted. “There are stories about her. Myths. I...well I spoke with a woman once who was giving food to gamins, and there was a number brand I saw on her collar bone that she tried to cover up. She looked like what the stories say, but she wouldn’t tell me her name.”

“She’s not allowed to tell anyone who she really is,” Fauchelevent added. “Or she’s doomed to the place forever. It’s why I’ve been taking care of her daughter all this time. Cosette’s like my own, now.”

“Monsieur Fauchelevent...” Enjolras eyes widened, touched by this and also wishing to know more.

Fauchelevent put a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, silencing his question. “Find her, when you go down, and she will tell you more. For now, we should get you on your way. Follow me.”

Enjolras did as asked, following the mysterious old man down the drained-out tunnel to a point where an incline began, leading to an even darker, tighter space down the railroad track, lit with the meager light of a few torches. Fauchelevent put both of his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders, and Enjolras felt the kindness in his touch.

“Stay close to the light, if you can,” Fauchelevent warns. “Keep those words you spoke in the barricade in your head. Remember the music you’ve half forgotten, because you’ll need it down there. Put your friend’s poetry in your pocket, and take it with you. Watch out for the other guards, because they’ll do you harm. I saw myself that you can fight, but be wary. Rest, if you need it, that head wound is nothing to sneeze at.”

Enjolras nodded, feeling something roaring inside his chest, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety and determination. Fear rested there too, but he acknowledged it before putting it away.

He was going to do this.

“Thank you, Monsieur Fauchelevent. Truly.”

Enjolras turned to go, spinning back around when Fauchelevent called out to him, the name _Enjolras_ ringing through the tunnel with an odd, ghostly echo.

Enjolras looked at Fauchelevent again, hearing the old man’s tremulous voice divulge an old, dusty secret.

“My real name is Jean Valjean. You can tell Javert I helped you come down. And if you need to, show him that coin.”

The name Valjean sounded like a story Enjolras had heard before. Like a legend from the past and something from the future all at once.

_Valjean._

_Valjean._

_Valjean_.

“Thank you, Valjean,” Enjolras whispered, though the name sounded louder, somehow.

“Be _careful_, Enjolras.”

The old man’s name intertwined with Enjolras’ own, both reverberating through the tunnel like someone was echoing them back.

Except, no one is there.

Enjolras nodded once more before smiling at Valjean and walking down the dark path, wondering what might await him on the other side of the long, arduous journey.

* * *

Valjean had been right about the hours’ long walk.

Enjolras stopped when he reached a flatter part of the road, sitting down to rest and undoing his cravat entirely, the fabric reeking of gun-smoke. His head pounded, though with a bit less force than before. He could hardly give it much thought, with everything else going on.

He was headed straight to hell.

Or what was essentially hell, anyway.

His friends were there. In Toulon. That mythical place people spoke of in fearful whispers. The place from which people didn’t return. Maybe he wouldn’t return, either.

He had to try.

Images of his friends, his beloved, courageous friends in shackles invaded his mind, but he pushed them back. Thinking of that right now wouldn’t help him. He had to remain clear-headed. He had to remain calm.

Tears sprang to his eyes, anyway.

He allowed himself a moment, resting his face in his hands and letting the quiet tears come. He remembered some of the words he spoke on the barricade. The lost, shattered barricade.

_And all will be harmony, concord, light, joy, and life._ He remembered Valjean’s words to him.

_Remember the music you’ve half forgotten, because you will need it down there._

“Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life...” he whispered. “Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life.”

He raised his voice a little more, the words coming out in a sing-song voice. “Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life.”

He said the words a third time, setting them to a melody he heard in his head as his tenor echoed in the silence.

“Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life.”

He sat up, breathing in deep and wiping his eyes, an odd comfort settling into his bones.

He would get down there. He would get them out.

“I’m coming,” he said to no one but perhaps the ghosts of those who’d taken the railroad through this tunnel. “I’m coming. Wait for me.”

Enjolras got back up, and started walking again. He walked along the edge of the railroad track, listening intently for the sound of any approaching train and carrying nothing in his pocket but Prouvaire’s poems, littered with a few music notes of his own. He didn’t have a weapon, because all of those were lost in the fighting. He barely knew where he was going, but he was going anyway.

_God_ it was hot down here, the heat growing more intense the further down he went, seeping into his pores and leaving streaks of sweat sticky across his skin. It might be spring outside, but it felt like the dead of summer down here. Worse.

As he moved into a more well-lit section of the track, he saw something.

Something that sent shivers running down his spine.

Pieces of wood. Pieces of furniture. Pieces of paper ripped into tiny shreds, looking like they might have once been a pamphlet.

Then, he laid eyes on one that still contained a full sentence.

_Liberte. Egalite, Fraternite ou la Mort. _

He stopped, looking more closely at the pieces of wood and furniture, seeing they were spattered with old blood so brown it nearly blended in with what once might have been a chair or a table, or even a carriage wheel.

These were pieces of old barricades.

Pieces of old barricades left along the railroad tracks to Toulon so that Javert and the other guards might remind the prisoners what happened to people who rebel.

Potent, acidic anger burned against the wall of his chest, a rage-shaped scar left behind on the inside as the skin prickled with fury.

God only knew what treatment the prisoners down here suffered, because normal French prisons were bad enough.

God only knew what was happening to his friends.

The mysteries and the ghosts in Valjean’s eyes made so much sense, now.

So Enjolras wiped his sweaty brow, not caring that he spread dirt in a smudge across his forehead. Not caring that his head throbbed and his legs ached.

And he went on anyway, deep into the earth and the darkness, gaining a clearer picture of what he might find on the other side.

He kept singing the words from his earlier speech, Prouvaire’s poems safe in his pocket. Those words he would save for later. Hopefully, he might be able to finish setting them to music.

He walked and he walked and he _walked_, those six words coming out over and over again in a song.

_Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life. _

His voice echoed through the cavernous space, almost as if there were people singing along with him, except no one was there. No one at all but him.

In the darkness, a door appeared. A wooden door, the lock splattered with rust from years of disuse. It was off to the side, away from the railroad tracks going _down down down_. A short cut, perhaps?

Just as Enjolras’ tenor raised to its loudest, the lock on the door came undone, a faint shimmer of gold bursting into the air. The gold was gone before Enjolras could fully realize it was there, and he wondered if he might have been seeing things.

Enjolras stopped dead in his tracks.

What was this place, really? Because _that_ was nothing short of magic.

The door gave an ear-shattering whine when Enjolras shoved it open, like it hadn’t been opened in years.

The last one to open it must have been Valjean.

Enjolras stepped inside, seeing a small room full of what looked like tools and other things stored away for later use. He heard a muffled, mumbling sound somewhere nearby. A sound he couldn’t quite make out. The sound, perhaps, of a song. It sounded like voices, anyway.

And then, another door. An iron door this time, with an old, ominous looking lock. This second door didn’t respond to Enjolras’ voice, so he pulled out the sharpened sou, hearing the tell-tale sound of the lock clicking open. Enjolras shoved the door with his shoulder, wincing when it gave an even louder whine than the first.

When he stepped through, there _was _the sound of singing. Singing he could hear now. Singing that sent shivers running down his spine. A terrible work song scraped sharply against his ears like metal on metal, several words clear above all the rest.

_Look down, look down, you’re standing in your grave. _

Enjolras sucked in a breath, remembering his own words on the barricade.

_We are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn. _

Except, there was no dawn here. There was barely a speck of light anywhere, except for dim orange lanterns and a stripe of winding silver off in the distance. His hand hovered over his pocket, feeling for Prouvaire’s poems tucked safely within, and held his melody close to his chest.

Then, he walked forward, because there was no going back.

* * *

Fantine was going to her quarters when she saw him.

A flash of bright, fair hair glinted in the light of the torches on the walls. Fair hair like her own, but belonging to someone else.

She stopped, gazing at the young man hiding in the shadows of the railroad stop where the train let off. He certainly_ looked_ like he could belong down here, all covered in dirt and—was that blood in his hair?—but it was the eyes that gave him away. They weren’t haunted. They weren’t dull.

They shone with life.

And defiance.

He looked familiar, as if she might have seen him before, but she couldn’t quite place it.

Had he _walked _down here? The only person she knew that had done that was Valjean, and he was going the opposite way. No one had ever walked willingly into Toulon. Not in all the years she’d been here, anyway, and she knew every story about the past there was. She was part of the lore, after all.

She wiped her sore, tired hands on her skirts, the tips of her fingers bleeding from poking herself with a needle too many times and sewing for too many hours. They made clothes for the world above, down here. Well, the women did, anyway. The men were usually building things that could be carried back above on the railroad. Even if the women wanted to do that work, Javert wouldn’t have let them, strict as he was about women’s work and men’s work. They worked twelve, thirteen, fourteen hours a day, depending on the task, left with just enough extra time to eat and sleep. There was one day off every month, and that was it.

The prisoners above made a meager pittance for their toils, the money taken out when they were released. The prisoners down here got nothing. Their food was given to them at specific times. Their lodging was assigned to them. She and a few other long-time prisoners had tiny, one-room huts of their own for good behavior, while the rest slept in barracks all jammed together. They didn’t need money, so it went, because they wouldn’t ever be going back above and they were provided with everything they needed. They would die down here, and that was that. And plenty died within a few years of arriving. Some died faster.

Except for her, of course, though the money they gave her wasn’t more than enough for scraps. Valjean met her every six months when she came back above, handing her far more, and telling her to write him if she needed anything. She felt guilt about it every time, but he seemed to have more than enough, so she always tried to quell the feeling. She thought of Cosette with a pang as she focused back on the situation at hand, deciding to go over to the young man.

The young man tensed up as she approached, his hand going protectively to the pocket of his coat. He didn’t look afraid, exactly, but distrustful, until his eyes widened in some kind of recognition.

Fantine raised her hands, indicating she meant no harm. “I’m not going to hurt you.” She smiled at him, hoping it was reassuring. “But you...well it’s clear you aren’t from...around here.”

“Fantine?” the young man lowered his voice. “Are you Fantine? I... I'm Enjolras. I was told to look for you." 

Fantine jolted, surprised at hearing her name in the mouth of anyone from above who wasn’t Valjean. She wasn’t allowed to utter her real name up above, because Javert wanted to crush the myths about her deal with him. Myths that spread like wildfire anyway. Myths about the woman who spent six months below in Toulon and six months above in Paris, like some kind of twisted Persephone tale.

Fantine pushed a strand of stray fair hair behind her ear, her heart beating faster. She shifted her long braid over her shoulder, thinking that it still felt strange even after all these years. Sometimes she imagined herself as that woman on the street with the badly shorn hair and the missing back teeth. Growing her hair back had been an attempt to remember herself, down here. To get back something she lost.

She focused on the young man, feeling something pull her to him. Did Valjean send this boy down here? But no. That didn’t make any sense. Valjean didn’t put anyone in harm’s way but himself.

Then, she remembered.

The eight young men she saw brought in....yesterday? This morning? There’d been a revolt above, apparently, and those young men were sent down here because of it. Javert had looked terribly agitated when she saw him, and she noticed one thing in particular.

His shaking hands.

Maybe Valjean helped him down here to come find his friends? Otherwise, Fantine didn’t know how this boy got here without knowing how. Had Valjean been at the barricade?

“I’m Fantine,” she whispered, remembering, suddenly, where she’d seen this young man before.

Handing out political pamphlets at a gathering she stumbled across one day, while taking food to some gamins she knew.

He’d known her name then, too.

“Come with me, all right?” she asked, though it was not really a suggestion. “We should talk in private. There’s ears all around here.”

He nodded without argument, which made Fantine think Valjean had sent him down here, because why wouldn’t he be suspicious otherwise? She took him around in the darkest places she could find—not a hard thing, in Toulon—hoping everyone might be too tired to watch her much. That was the thing about this place; she was always being watched. She might have her own sleeping space, but all the guards, and especially Javert, were always looking for a reason to cut her off from the world above entirely.

She might not be able to talk to her daughter, or see her properly. But she can hear stories from Valjean. If she’s careful she could watch Cosette in her garden on the Rue Plumet at night, admiring her now grown up little girl from afar. At first she thought she might be able to see Cosette. That she might be able to make up some story about who she was and talk with her as an old friend of Valjean’s who came to visit sometimes. But then if she made one misstep there, one wrong word, if the truth came spilling out or Cosette recognized her, the agreement with Javert would be void. Then she wouldn’t see Cosette again at all, let alone hear about her. She’d be trapped down here, with nothing. Javert couldn’t have anyone knowing about his small moment of mercy so many years ago. A mercy only given because was afraid he’d killed her.

She hadn’t seen anything like that moment since.

Fantine shut the door tight behind her once they reached her small hut, filled up with not much more than a bed and a small table, the walls covered in her amateur paintings of things from above: flowers, sunlight reflecting on the Seine, Cosette’s face as she grew up. There was also a cabinet in the corner, full to bursting with things she smuggled from above, hoping she could help the poor wretches down here: spare food, medicine, even blankets. It was never enough, but she did what she could. Everyone came to her for help, all of them keeping the secret from Javert, his guards, and the prisoners who served as their spies.

“Please sit, you look exhausted,” Fantine said, going over to the cabinet and rifling through one of the drawers, looking for a fresher bandage for Enjolras’ head. “Did someone hit you in the head?”

Enjolras nodded, and Fantine thought he looked painfully young, the bright blue eyes casting about her small quarters in desperation, his fingers scrunching the fabric of his trouser leg back and forth.

“One of the national guard,” he told her. “At the barricades.”

Fantine finally located the supplies she was looking for, asking Enjolras if she might look at his wound. She undid the bandage, wincing at the matted blood caked in his hair. She wet a cloth, hoping she might be able to get some of it out before she re-bandaged it.

“Valjean told me to come find you,” Enjolras said into the quiet, confirming Fantine’s theory. “He didn’t want me to come, but I asked him to tell me how. My friends…”

“Were brought here after the barricade.” Fantine finished the sentence for him, remembering the young men in shackles, all of them bloodied from either the fight itself or some kind of confrontation on the journey here. “I saw them.”

“You saw them?’ Enjolras jumped, interrupting Fantine’s work. “Please, I don’t want to cause trouble for you, but you have to tell me where they are.”

“Easy there,” Fantine chided, her stomach twisting at the image of what Javert might do to this young man. “Let me get you cleaned up, all right? Then we can figure it out.”

Enjolras nodded, though he looked nothing less than reluctant, clearly eager to get back to his friends.

Eager to get them out.

Fantine didn’t know if it was possible, but maybe it could be. Maybe it was. No matter the dark days down here, she could never give up that one day, she might be reunited with Cosette.

“So you’re quite the rebel, I see.” Fantine bit her lip against a smile, feeling quickly fond of anyone who might brave hell itself to come for people they loved. “I remember you, by the way. You were handing out political pamphlets in the street in Paris. Near the Café Musain.”

Enjolras smiled in return, glancing back as she finished cleaning his wound and wrapped a new bandage around his head, his long golden curls sticking out from beneath the white cloth.

“I remember.” Enjolras accepted her offering of a glass of water, leaning back in his chair as he drank, his limbs limp with exhaustion. “We’ve all heard the stories about you. Valjean told me a little, but how…can I ask what happened?”

“It’s a long, old story,” Fantine said, memories tumbling into her head, some faded and some so bright they might have happened yesterday. “But I was a prostitute, years ago, after getting fired from Valjean’s factory, though he was Madeline, then. I had a daughter, Cosette, but her father left us when she was very small, and I’d left her in the care of a family who owned an inn while I looked for work. For a while, things were all right, until I was fired.”

Enjolras opened his mouth, looking angry and confused at this information, but Fantine raised her hand, stopping whatever he might have said in his tracks.

“Valjean didn’t know. In fact, he was horrified when he found out, and tried to help me when Javert tried arresting me in the first place, for retaliating against a man who attacked me first. He took me in and saw to my health. For a while they worried I had consumption. But the trouble was, the man who attacked me was going to file a charge for attempted murder, and well….you can imagine how that might go for me. Javert burst in one day, telling me that Valjean was a convict, that Valjean couldn’t help me get my daughter back, that there were new charges being filed against me. I was so frightened and so ill that I passed out, and for a moment, I think Javert believed he killed me. So we made a deal: I would stay in Toulon for half the year in response to the man’s charges, and then above for half the year because…well. I suppose Javert felt guilt. But I haven’t seen him feel a thing since, so don’t count on that.”

“And Valjean looks after your daughter? Cosette?” Enjolras asked, and Fantine felt another pang in her chest. “And you can’t see her?”

“He does,” Fantine answered. “I’m not allowed to tell anyone who I really am when I’m in Paris, because Javert hates the legends about me. They make him look _weak_, I suppose. Talking to Cosette is too much of a danger. Too much risk something would slip out and land me here permanently. Cosette knows I’m locked up, and Valjean tells her the rules disallow her from seeing me. But she doesn’t know the whole story.”

Enjolras nodded, reaching out to press Fantine’s hand. “Thank you for helping me, Fantine. I know it might get you in trouble with Javert.”

Fantine squeezed his hand in return, feeling abrupt affection flood through her. “I have some leverage as far as what I do down here, because the other prisoners respect me, and Javert knows it. But if you’re brave enough to come down here, the least I can do is help. Can I ask, was Valjean all right when you left him? What was he doing at the barricade?”

Enjolras let go of her hand, rubbing at the sore spot on his head. “He was there to save another friend of mine, Marius Pontmercy, who was very much in love with your daughter. Valjean got him out, and was fine himself. He was going back to them when he sent me down here, as far as I know.”

Fantine shook her head fondly, wiping a stray tear from her eye. “He’s always done whatever he could to make Cosette happy. I can never thank him enough.”

“He saved my life,” Enjolras added. “Apparently Javert wanted to bring me down here, but he thought I was dead.”

Fantine’s face darkened, a flash of anxiety bursting in her stomach like the pinpricks of a hot needle. She isn’t surprised Javert would wish to bring someone like Enjolras down here, with the sheer hope of crushing him.

But then, Javert had always wanted to crush her, too, and he never quite succeeded. She suspected Enjolras was much the same.

Still, she doesn’t like to think what a place like this would do to Enjolras’ spirit.

Fantine leaned forward, taking both of Enjolras’ hands in hers. “This place will try to suck the very life out of you. You have to constantly think of the things you love to stay sane. Promise me you’ll do that, for however long you’re here.”

“I will.” Enjolras pressed her fingers tight. “I promise.”

Fantine eyed the paper-shaped bulge in Enjolras’ pocket. “Might I ask what you’re carrying there?”

Enjolras pulled a few pieces of paper from his pocket, a poem scribbled across the top sheet, with a few stray notes of music written above. “These are some poems my friend Prouvaire wrote that I was hoping I might set to music. Valjean said it might do me some good down here.”

Fantine thought of the sad, dark work song she heard every day in Toulon. The song that clawed into the air and seized your soul in its clutches, even if you weren’t singing along. The song that sat heavy and deep in everyone’s bones, keeping them their hope, from the tiny bit of hope they were able to grasp down here, anyway. Toulon didn’t need shackles. Not really. Toulon just needed that song. Fantine knew the song. Fantine knew the song as well as she knew her own name.

_Look down, look down, you’re standing in your grave/Look down, look down, you’ll always be a slave. _

She wondered what a new song might do.

She smiled, thinking of Valjean. “How did you get down here, exactly?”

“I followed the railroad tracks until I saw a door,” Enjolras said. “I started singing, and it seemed to unlock that first door, somehow. The second one I unlocked with this.” He took yet another thing out of his pocket, and Fantine instantly recognized the sou Valjean used to escape himself.

Fantine stood up at the sight of it, feeling something spark deep inside her chest. Something rebellious. Something hopeful. Something so real she could have reached out and touched it.

The spark she’d been waiting for. She’d always held the candle. She’d always been ready. She just couldn’t do it on her own. Not in this place, where everyone was half-dead the moment they arrived. She needed help.

Today, Enjolras might light the match.

She only hoped she wouldn’t start a fire. Except, in Toulon, a fire might be worth it.

“Come with me,” she told Enjolras. “I know where your friends are.” 

* * *

Enjolras followed Fantine through the dark, winding paths of Toulon, the place eerily silent in the absence of the bone-chilling work song he’d heard earlier. Everyone was asleep now, he supposed. Torches and lanterns hung on the wall every so often, but aside from the one patch of moonlight Enjolras spied far off in the distance, there was nothing of the natural world down here except rocks and dirt and dripping water. Everything was rock, in fact, aside from a long, winding silver river he saw off in the distance, the river he thought he spotted earlier. The ceiling the walls the ground was rock rock _rock_. The buildings were made of wood, plain and without decoration. There was a tree here or there, planted in over-dark soil, all of them gathered around the single, small area where light came through.

“They’re in the holding cell,” Fantine told him as they walked along, lowering her voice to a whisper. “We might need that coin to open the door.” She smiled, her blue eyes glinting with mirth in the darkness. “Or maybe we can try that voice trick of yours.”

Enjolras smiled too, feeling sweat gathering in a sticky film across his palms. He didn’t know what awaited him, but he was going to see his friends again. He was going to see them again and they were going to be together. That was what mattered.

Together, they could do anything.

_The barricades proved otherwise. _

Doubt crept into his mind. Doubt that sounded like someone speaking to him, but when he turned around, there was no one there but Fantine.

_We can. _

He argued back silently to himself. To that voice. To that doubt. He could get his friends out of here. He had to try. If he didn’t try, then what was the point of anything at all? He’d known when he set foot on that barricade that _try_ was the only guarantee. And he’ll try again down here in this dark, dusty, terrible place, this nightmare that somehow was real. And maybe, just maybe, he could spark a change down here. With Fantine and his friends, maybe something could begin.

He recalled the terrible tremble in Valjean’s voice when he’d spoken of Toulon. He’d spied Fantine’s overfull drawers of supplies, realizing she must be doing everything she could to help her fellow prisoners with her connections to the outside world.

“There is another thing you should know,” Fantine said as they quickened their steps. “A piece of lore nearly as old as Toulon itself. Javert was born here. His mother was in one of the first rounds of prisoners. A Romani woman, so they say. Javert hates anyone mentioning it, but there are records. Stories that go around. It’s one of the few things I’ve ever seen that made him look vulnerable.”

“Born in this hell?” Enjolras kept his voice low, a spike of sympathy for the Chief Guard of Toulon spiking in his chest, though it doesn’t last _too _long. “I can’t even imagine a child down here. What happened?

“They took him away from her when he was a boy. So the stories say. She never came back up, and he never saw her again.”

Their conversation died off as they reached a small building with darkened windows, finding the door locked.

“Try singing,” Fantine said with an edge of wonder in her voice. “I’m eager to see if it works. Quietly now.”

Enjolras nodded, choosing the same words from earlier and raising his voice in a soft melody, the same one that helped him get through the hidden doors to this place.

“All will be harmony, concord, light, joy, and life.”

The lock shook, but didn’t budge, so Enjolras repeated the tune. The melody had tugged at him at the barricade, growing stronger in his head as he walked down into the deep. Now, he heard it even clearer, but it wasn’t complete. He distantly thought that it sounded like a lullaby, perhaps.

“Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life.”

The ceiling gave an odd rumble above them, a few pebbles of rock falling down at their feet.

What was _happening_?

“Once more,” Fantine urged, looking around with a mixture of alarm and amazement, her voice holding a breathless, mesmerized quality.

“And all will be harmony, concord, light, joy, and life.”

The notes of the song materialized in the air like a wave of shimmering gold, piercing the silence and flowing into the lock before disappearing again.

The lock came undone.

Enjolras stared at the lock and then at Fantine, who repeated his movements.

What was _happening_?

That was magic. _Magic_.

_There’s magic in the world, still,_ Jean Prouvaire said to Enjolras late one night in the Musain when it was just the two of them, his lips stained red from wine. _In the ancient places. We’ve just forgotten how to unlock it, is all. I suspect there’s some magic in you, Enjolras, with the way you can make people believe in their own hope. _

_If anyone has magic, it’s you, my friend_, Enjolras replied_. I didn’t really understand poetry, until I read yours. _

Fantine pushed the door open, and Enjolras lit the candle she’d given him before they left her quarters. Meager orange light pooled in front of them, allowing him to see more clearly than before.

Then, he saw them.

His friends.

Behind bars.

This image evoked such a powerful emotion that Enjolras lost his breath, putting a hand to his chest and willing himself to keep breathing normally. The candlelight made shadows dance across the walls, lending the whole room a feeling of being caught between worlds.

“Enjolras?”

Combeferre’s voice came out in a dry, cracked whisper, relief in every syllable. “Enjolras is that_ you_?”

“It’s me,” Enjolras assured him, watching some of the others sit up from their disturbed sleep on the floor of the tiny cell.

There wasn’t time to try singing again, so he pulled out Valjean’s coin, undoing the lock on the cell door before all eight of his friends spilled out into the tiny room, still in their bedraggled barricade clothing, not yet wearing the Toulon uniforms he’d seen upon his arrival. Combeferre’s arms went around him. Then Courfeyrac’s. Then Feuilly’s and Prouvaire’s and Joly’s and Bossuet’s and Bahorel’s and Grantaire’s, all their limbs tangled together in one incomprehensible knot.

“You came down here,” Courfeyrac whispered, already audibly crying, and there was still warmth in his voice, somehow, even in this place. “You came.”

“Of course,” Prouvaire said fiercely, his voice muffled against someone’s shoulder. “Of course he did. We knew if he was alive, if he knew how, that he would. You said that yourself, Courfeyrac. And now it’s true.”

“Only you would walk to hell, Enjolras,” Grantaire answered wryly.

“You’re hurt,” Joly commented.

“How did you do it?” Feuilly asked.

“Just a head wound,” Enjolras said, speaking to Joly’s concern first. “And that old man from the barricade, Cosette’s father,” he continued, speaking to Feuilly’s. “He helped me. Told me how to get down here.” He looked at Grantaire, whose face was uncharacteristically drawn with worry. “Turns out if you’re not on the train, the only way _is _to walk. I walked for…I don’t even know. Hours.”

The mention of his long walk made his aching legs throb, the pain in his head wound slightly better but still decidedly not gone. He realized he must look a sight, covered in sweat and dirt and his own blood. Exhaustion melted into his bones, but there wasn’t time for that. There wasn’t _time_.

“Just a head wound…” Joly muttered. “We saw you get hit and worried you died on _impact_. You only had your eyes closed for a few seconds, but it was a long few seconds. Then you _did _pass out.”

Combeferre clicked his tongue in disapproval. “He’s right, Enjolras. Head wounds are nothing to sneeze at. You’re concussed, no doubt.”

Enjolras swallowed against what was something like half a laugh and half a sob, so glad to see them again, despite where they are. God, he’d been worried they were lost forever.

“I couldn’t let a concussion stop me from finding you,” Enjolras said. “It’s a small thing, in comparison.”

“Yes,” Feuilly replied, very softly. “A very small thing.”

Finally they all broke apart, and Enjolras saw Bossuet grinning at him, the expression strange in a place like this, but Bossuet was nothing if not adaptable, and willing to smile even in the dark. Enjolras swore he saw the room brighten a little, some of the shadows running away across the wall.

“Something the matter?” he asked Bossuet, feeling his own lips twitching into a smile.

“I’m just impressed that you walked all the way to this hell, like Grantaire said,” Bossuet answered, but Enjolras saw him wiping his eyes. “Not that I doubted you of course, but we didn’t know if you’d be able to find a way here. Or if you were alive, after we were dragged off while you were passed out. That second bit was the worst part.”

“I knew you would find your way,” Bahorel said, swinging an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. “And who might this be with you?”

“This is Fantine,” Enjolras replied. “She’s been a great help.”

“Fantine?” Combeferre pushed his cracked spectacles up the bridge of his nose, taking Enjolras’ hand in his own. “Most people say you’re just a legend.”

Fantine bowed, giving them all a smile. “I am as real as they come. Have they fed you since they brought you down? Water? Anything?”

“Not a drop,” Courfeyrac said, wedging himself between Bahorel and Enjolras. “Or, well, not a drop of food, I should say. Just a bit of water.” Courfeyrac licked his lips, and Enjolras saw how cracked they were, so it must have been a while since the water. “Said they would _process us_ later, but that was a while ago.”

Enjolras took the chance to study his friends, noticing all their wrists bloodied and bruised from the shackles they must have worn, their wounds from the barricade either hastily tended to or not at all.

“We’re all right, Enjolras,” Feuilly said, noticing his worry, but it couldn’t have been clearer that_ none_ of them were all right.

“They shouldn’t treat you like this,” Enjolras whispered, rage making his voice shake. “They shouldn’t treat anyone like this. It’s barbaric. When I woke up and saw you were all missing I…”

“We know.” Combeferre squeezed Enjolras’ hand. “We were all worried about that when they dragged us off. Were you…we heard singing, before the door came open. Was that you? Your voice is a bit singular, so I thought it was, but then I wondered if the exhaustion was perhaps making me hear things.”

Enjolras nods. “It was me. Valjean, that is to say the old man, he saw me trying to set Prouvaire’s poem to music at the barricade, and he said…he said a song might do me some good down here. So I sang a little as I walked along, and it unlocked one of the doors, though not the other. It was the same here. I brought some of your poems with me, Jehan. I thought maybe I could do something with them here, to counteract the work song I heard the prisoners singing.”

“You sang a _lock_ open!” Prouvaire clasped his hands together, intrigued even here in Toulon, and not even questioning whatever magic that could make a voice undo a lock. “That’s…well I’ve _always_ said your voice had an otherworldly power Enjolras, but you never would truly listen.” He stopped, tears flooding his eyes, and Enjolras swears they almost look silver as they fall. “I’m honored you would bring my poems.”

“You’re the best poet I know.” Enjolras took his free hand that wasn’t in Combeferre’s, reaching out to clasp Prouvaire’s. “There’s nothing better than one of yours. Granted I am no expert in poetry, but it’s true, nevertheless.”

Fantine brushed off her skirts, her golden hair shining a bit more than before, and if it wasn’t, Enjolras was seeing things.

“Let me go get some of my supplies, clean the lot of you up,” she said. “I’ll be right back, just stay here, and be very quiet.”

But before she could move, before she could say anything else, the door into the small building banged open. It banged open so hard Enjolras thought it might come off the hinges.

A sharp voice cut through the room, painfully clear.

“Oh, I don’t think a single one of you will be going _anywhere_.”

Enjolras spun around, met with the cold gray eyes of the infamous prison guard everyone in the world above called the _Wolf of Toulon_. Enjolras never knew what he looked like, exactly, not until the barricade. There were drawings people did. Ideas. Javert had always been a ghost, coming up above into the world as needed, but always descending back into hell. Willingly, it seemed, though no one knew much about him, other than legends, and the legends were sparse.

He remembered helping this same man drink a glass of water at the barricade, but he doubted that small kindness would come into play now. He had planned to execute Javert, and in all the chaos of waking up to find his friends gone, he realized he never asked Valjean why he didn’t do the deed.

Javert stared him down, reaching forward and grabbing Enjolras’ torn up collar, jerking him mercilessly forward.

“You’re going to tell me just what you’re doing in my prison, boy. And you’re going to tell me right. _Now_.” 

* * *

The song woke Javert up from a dead sleep.

_And all will be harmony, concord, light, joy, and life. _

He jolted up straight from his bed, where he’d fallen into a restless sleep, exhausted even as he was haunted by visions of the barricade and Valjean and his damned _mercy_. Javert didn’t need it. Javert didn’t want it.

Valjean had given it to him anyway.

Valjean always found a way to return to his life. He always found a way, long after the escape from Toulon that started it all. It felt like fate, sometimes, if Javert dared believe in such a thing. Fate that years ago, just when he was forced to take a few months’ reprieve from Toulon for his health—the darkness took a toll, even on him—he landed in the exact same town where Valjean had fooled everyone into believing he was Madeline. That was where he’d encountered Fantine. That was where he’d lost Valjean once more.

After that, he never took a long reprieve from Toulon again, going up once a month to tend to business for a few days, and never more.

Now, Valjean wasn’t his only problem. There appeared to be another.

He heard the words a second time.

_Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life. _

A third time.

Then, the ceiling started rumbling.

The _ceiling_.

He shot up, throwing on his clothes and his boots before dashing out the door.

What damnable soul had made their way into _his _prison?

What had Valjean done? He had something to do with it, Javert just knew it.

He knew Toulon like he knew his own mind, crawling about the place as he had in his childhood when the prison was still fairly new, then as a guard, and finally as chief of the whole operation. He knew every crook. Every cranny. Every space of light and dark. Everything. The sound of his whistle pierced the air with a sharp, high sound, drawing most of the other guards from their quarters, and he heard some of them following behind as he ran, the familiar scrape of their boots on the rock like music to his ears.

Then, he saw it.

A feeble, golden ray of light just above the building with the holding cell, several pieces of fragmented rock laying on the ground. He heard voices on the other side, a feminine one standing out in particular.

Fantine. Of course.

She was saying something about going to her quarters and bringing back medicine and food, for the rebels, no doubt. He pushed open the unlocked door, finding the eight he suspected, Fantine, and…

_What?_ The Enjolras boy. The Enjolras boy he thought was _dead_. He shoved his questions aside, poisonous words spewed forth like venom.

“Oh, I don’t think a single one of you will be going _anywhere_.”

The Enjolras boy spun around on his heel, and Javert didn’t give him a chance to speak before he seized the brat by his collar, leaning so close they were almost nose to nose.

“You’re going to tell me just what you’re doing in my prison, boy. And you’re going to tell me right. _Now_.”

Enjolras only stared him down in answer, and Javert held on tighter to the boy’s collar, lifting him off his feet entirely before tossing him bodily out the door. Enjolras landed with a hard thud on the ground, biting his lip against an involuntary cry of pain.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac shouted, held back by Fantine.

Javert stormed forward and loomed over Enjolras, who groaned in pain before propping himself up on one elbow, the anger in his eyes like a flash of blue lighting.

“You thought you could break into my prison and save your friends, did you? Well…”

Javert stopped his words dead in their tracks at the sound of dozens of footsteps approaching, the shouts of the guards cracking through the air in warning. Prisoners had come out of their barracks, awoken by the noise of Javert’s whistle.

And maybe, the sound of Enjolras’ earlier song.

No. No. Javert won’t have it.

_Someone broke_ _in? _Javert heard them whisper, the murmur spreading across the crowd.

Enjolras looked at the growing group around them, then at his friends, then straight at Javert. Red spots bloomed on his dirty, ripped blue coat, some of the rocks likely cutting through to the skin when Javert threw him down. Some of the blood leaked out through a rip in Enjolras’ shirt, forming a smeared, liquid red flower in the thin layer of dirt.

“You can’t just take people down here without a trial,” Enjolras spat, fury dripping from every single word. “This place shouldn’t exist at all, but you can’t just drag people here without warning.”

Javert leaned down closer, and Enjolras still didn’t move from his place on the ground, holding his body in a tense, defensive position

“I can drag treasonous rebels down here without _anything_, if I catch them in the act. Perhaps you and your friends should have thought of that before you made your choices. How the hell did you get down here, boy?”

Enjolras sat up, pulling something out of his pocket and tossing it toward Javert.

A coin.

The coin landed at Javert’s feet, spinning on the rock a few times before coming to a rest.

It was…sharp? Sharp like a knife. But how? The coins people left on the railroad tracks, Javert remembered. That must be it. He picked the coin up, staring at it for a moment before stowing it away in his pocket.

“A man named Jean Valjean sent me with that.” Enjolras stared Javert down again as he spoke, and Javert heard some of the prisoners gasp in surprise. They all knew the name, and Javert had done his best to crush that all too true urban legend of Valjean’s escape. “He told me to tell you he showed me how to come down here.” Enjolras looked around at the prisoners again, and Javert realized he was trying to make a point. “That coin is how he got out. And away from you.”

Enjolras’ voice rang with defiance. Rage bubbled up in Javert’s chest, a rage so hot and so overpowering that it boiled over, his next words coming so fiercely that it might have actually made the temperature itself go up a degree.

“Give me your hands, boy!”

Enjolras stood up, glancing over at his friends, but he didn’t move an inch. He didn’t bend, he didn’t blink, he didn’t look afraid, and it made Javert _furious._ Javert pulled the pistol off his belt, pointing it straight at Enjolras and aiming true. The bullet whizzed just past Enjolras’ ear in warning and he stepped calmly to the side, not breaking eye contact with Javert.

“That was a warning, and it’s the only one you’ll get. Give me your damned hands. Now. You wanted to come down here so badly? Well you’re under arrest.”

“Javert!” Fantine shouted, stepping forward toward them while still doing her best to guard the other young men. “Stop it!”

Javert ignored her, cocking the trigger of his second pistol, and still Enjolras didn’t move any further, even with the gun pointed straight at him. At least, not until one voice pierced the air.

“Enjolras, _run_!”

The rebel with the glasses shouted the words, earning a knee to the stomach from one of the guards in recompense, and he feel to his knees on the ground, surrounded by two of the others in an instant.

Finally, Enjolras listened to someone, taking off at a mad and yet somehow elegant sprint. He disappeared into the darkness, looking utterly torn apart as he glanced back, his eyes full of fire.

Javert knew he wouldn’t leave. There wasn’t even the smallest chance of that.

“Lock this lot back up,” he told the guards, gesturing at Enjolras’ friends, who all looked pale as death. “Let the boy think he can hide, then we’ll search him out.” He turned toward the gathered prisoners, who looked first at Fantine, then back toward the empty space where Enjolras had run, drawn toward the ire in Javert’s voice. “All of you back to bed. _Now_.”

Everyone scattered. Javert walked directly up to Fantine, wary of the departing prisoners’ eyes on them and knowing full well how much influence she held with the population at large. He seized her by the sleeve, heading in the direction of her quarters.

“I think you and I have several things to discuss, don’t you?” he asked, feeling her struggle against his grasp.

“Let me go, damn you!” she shouted, ripping away from him with an unexpected strength. “You’re a wretch aren’t you? Always have been, always will be.”

“Talk back to me once more,” Javert warned. “And see where it gets you. _Walk_.”

Fantine obeyed because there wasn’t really much choice. Javert shoved her inside once they reached her quarters, closing the door and blocking the lone exit.

“And just what did you think you were doing, hmm? I could revoke your ability to go above in an instant. Helping someone who has broken in would certainly qualify.”

“You might do that if broke the rules you set for me when I’m above,” Fantine shot back. “But you won’t do that if I displease you down here. The other prisoners like me too much. Helping those boys had to be worth the risk, anyway. Even if I’m wrong about that.”

Javert abandoned his post by the door, going over to a set of drawers in the corner of the small hut, hearing Fantine draw in a sharp breath of protest. He opened one and then the other, seeing all sorts of things contained within: medicine, extra clothing, even some Parisian chocolate.

“_This_ is why they’re so fond of you isn’t it?” Javert said, turning back around to face Fantine. “Well they won’t be anymore, now that I know about your treachery, bringing things from above and breaking the rules we have here. You should be grateful to me Fantine, and you never are. I was a fool for not searching your suitcase.”

“Grateful?” Fantine’s voice exploded across the small room. “You trapped me down here. You have set rules that keep me from my daughter to hide your own small moment of what I suppose _you_ call weakness. Because you don’t want people above knowing about me, even though they already do. You felt bad because you thought you killed me—god knows why—and then you felt so guilty that you tricked me into this deal. Why did you even bother?”

Javert slammed his hand on the wooden chest, not caring for the pang in his palm. “Tricked you? Bambatois was going to file attempted_ murder_ charges, and then what would you have done?? You’d be dead, most likely, is that better? You weren’t worth the kindness I deigned to show you. At least your daughter knows you’re alive.”

“What good is that?” Fantine’s shout sounded strangled, but god there was still _life_ in it. _Feeling_. More feeling than Javert thought he’d ever held with himself. “I can’t_ talk_ to her, Javert. Because of you! She doesn’t know the truth. She doesn’t know _why_.” Fantine shook her head, running her hands through sweaty hair and pulling several strands loose. “Kindness. You have guards tail me when I’m in Paris, shortening my time when I do something you deem inappropriate, like, god forbid, feeding gamins. Last year I was only above for four months before you had me shackled and dragged back down here. That’s not kindness. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Javert didn’t answer, shutting his eyes against the pounding of his head.

Valjean had let him_ go_.

Enjolras had broken _in._

And now there was whispering among the prisoners. He’d heard it as he walked away with Fantine.

_Valjean did break out. And this boy broke in. _

An older, darker memory invaded his head after that. A memory of his own desperate, childish scream cutting through the air and echoing back against the railroad track.

_Maman! _

“You know what it’s like to be separated from someone you love,” Fantine whispered, her fists clenched at her sides, though Javert heard something like _empathy_ in her voice, and he couldn’t stand it. “I’ve heard the old tales about you growing up here, and how they took you away when you got too old to manage. Your mother died down here, didn’t she? Is that why you felt…_something_, about me? Guilt? Whatever it is you want to call it? Because of her?”

“Stop it.” Javert’s words held all the ferocity and suddenness of slap to the face, but Fantine kept going anyway.

“They took you from her, and yet you came back here. To the place where it happened. Why?” Kindness laced Fantine’s angry, bewildered words and Javert didn’t understand. He didn’t _want_ her kindness, and why would she give it to him, besides? He wouldn’t fall for any trick like that. “Did you think this was the only place you could belong?”

“Enough!” Javert’s shout split the air, but Fantine was not afraid.

He wanted her to be afraid, and sometimes she was. But she was never afraid _enough_. Not like the others down here.

“That young man is going to change things.” Fantine’s voice held all the assurance of a prophet. “I know it. Valjean must have sensed it when he sent him down here, even though I’m sure it pained him. And you know it, too.”

Javert thought of Valjean again, the memory of the damned convict’s mercy making him shiver all over again. He’d sent his guards to arrest the rebels at the Chanverie barricade while he got the approval from his superiors to take them without further trial. He’d waited by the railroad stop instead of going back to the barricade, overseeing their transport but not going back to check.

He should have gone back. He should have looked to see if Valjean and Enjolras were still there.

_What would you have done then?_ A snide, quiet voice asked him. _Arrested Valjean?_

_No_, a kinder, louder voice said.

He batted it away. He _would _have arrested Valjean. He would have.

He would have.

Javert took a deep breath before releasing a long, pointed sigh. “I know nothing of the sort. What I do know is that you need some time alone with your thoughts. I’m locking you in for a while. I’m sure by the time I decide to let you out, the Enjolras boy will already be dead. That’s what he gets, for breaking in here.” He paused, tapping his chin. “Or perhaps I’ll do my _worst_, and show you the fruits of your labor. I’ll just throw him in the river and erase his memory, then shackle him up with the rest. You’ll see that dead look in his eyes every day you’re here, that look that tells you he’s searching for his memories, for his soul, and can’t find either. And then you’ll know it was because you made the foolish mistake of helping him. I’m sure he would _rather_ perish.”

Javert slammed the door shut before Fantine could utter another word, using his master key to lock it from the outside. He didn’t hold any notion that she wouldn’t find a way out, but it would at least slow her down.

Even as he walked away, he couldn’t get the boy’s eerie, hopeful melody out of his head.

_And all will be harmony, concord, light, joy, and life. _

Another, older tune pierced his memory, a tune that sounded oddly similar to Enjolras’, along with the sound of a woman’s soothing alto.

The sound of a lullaby.

The sound of his mother.

How old had he been when they took him away? Six? Seven? Old enough to remember it with startling, painful clarity.

He heard the melody of the lullaby his mother had sung to him in whispers when he couldn’t sleep, darkness surrounding them on all sides. There’d been more light in Toulon in those days, though not much more.

To think he’d ever been afraid of the dark, when the dark was his home now. He’d chosen the dark, no matter the fears of his childhood.

He knew how to live in the dark. It was why he’d taken the job here as a young man, working his way up to Chief Guard after several years.

He didn’t want the light. He didn’t_ need_ it.

He repeated that to himself as he walked faster toward his quarters, pushing both the sound of his mother’s voice and the boy’s singing out of his head.

All the way back, he looked down, and he kept his head low.

Because there was no reason to look up.


	2. ...And the One We Live in Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What horizon is visible from the depths of hell? Enjolras asks himself the question as the monumental task stands before him: can he change Javert’s heart with a song? Can his music and Jean Prouvaire’s poetry topple a kingdom? Fantine stands fiercely by Enjolras and his friends, risking any chance she has at freedom and seeing Cosette again. 
> 
> Together, they shake the foundations of Toulon, and one thing remains. 
> 
> How will Javert answer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prouvaire's poems that Enjolras turns into songs that you see in this second half are actually Victor Hugo poems! The first is called Patria, and the second Still Be a Child. The first it's meant to be a sort of "If It's True" moment, and the second something like "Epic III." 
> 
> Enjoy!

Enjolras ran straight toward the light.

It was the only light he could see in the entire place, save from the few tiny spots where his song had caused the rock in the ceiling to come loose. He didn’t know if it was moonlight or sunlight or starlight, because the time of day down here seemed irrelevant, but it didn’t matter. It was light. It was obvious. He knew that. They would look for him near the light, but they were going to look for him wherever he went and he wasn’t going to run out of Toulon. Not for anything. Not without his friends. And if he’s honest with himself, not without Fantine. Not if he can help it.

He needed the light.

How did people survive down here, in this darkness? He had always heard that many of Toulon’s prisoners died in a matter of years, and now he sees why. No myth that he’d ever heard could match what he saw for himself. He’d always known that French prisons were places of terrible abuse, but this? This was something else. Something even worse. Something meant not just to shatter the spirit, but to shatter memory and life itself.

He swore he would not let it crush him.

He crashed to the ground in exhaustion once he reached the singular, stunning pool of golden light. He was sweaty and dirty and his head ached and his legs throbbed and he wasn’t sure he’d ever been this tired. Weariness weighed his bones down but he had to think. He had to figure out what he was going to do.

He pulled his coat and shirt up, seeing several small, jagged cuts near his ribcage from landing on the rocks when Javert had tossed him out the door, blood smeared across the skin and soaking through his clothes. He shrugged off his ruined navy-blue coat, using his dirty red cravat to wipe his face before tying it again haphazardly. He leaned against the wall of rock and half into a shadow, hoping it might hide him away from any guards searching for him.

He closed his eyes, summoning the pool of golden light in his own soul that mirrored the one in front of him, and holding tight to it.

He hadn’t wanted to run. But when Combeferre’s voice pierced the air just as Javert looked about to pull the trigger again to take a kill shot, there wasn’t a choice.

Being dead was useless to him. Being dead wouldn’t get his friends out of here. It wouldn’t help Fantine. Being dead wouldn’t change this horrible place. He reached in his pocket, finding the sheaf of Prouvaire’s poems, seeing a few smears of his own blood on the top page. This was the poem he’d tried to compose music for, the title _Still Be a Child_ written across the top, and the last two stanzas unfinished. Something about the poem tugged at him and he thought he heard something like the melody of a lullaby in his head, the same melody that got him through the locked doors, but he couldn’t finish it, quite yet. There were notes missing, he was certain. He laid it aside, looking through the rest.

Then, he saw a poem that made his breath catch in his chest.

_Patria_, it was called, with the words, _for Enjolras_ written next to the title.

He heard music in his head, suddenly, music he could not ignore. Music that filled him up to the brim in a way it hadn’t since he was a boy.

He started to sing.

He knew it would draw attention. He knew it would get him caught. But he had to do it. He _had_ to, for some reason. Maybe the prisoners would hear, and maybe it could comfort them. Maybe it would comfort _him_, and give him the strength to figure out a way to forge ahead.

He heard a melody in his head, stumbling over the first few lines and trying to sort it out without writing anything down. He just wanted to hear it.

Who smiles there? Is it  
A stray spirit,  
Or woman fair?  
Sombre yet soft the brow!  
Bow, nations, bow;  
O soul in air,  
Speak—what art thou?

He closed his eyes his eyes, reaching for the melody. Reaching for the gift everyone always talked about when he was a boy, but fell to disuse as he grew older. He thought of the first time he’d sung absentmindedly to himself in his rooms in front of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, drawing a surprised gasp from latter.

_In grief the fair face seems—_  
_ What means those sudden gleams?_  
_ Our antique pride from dreams_  
_ Starts up, and beams_  
_ Its conquering glance,—_  
_ To make our sad hearts dance,_  
_ And wake in woods hushed long_  
_ The wild bird's song._  
_ Angel of Day!_  
_ Our Hope, Love, Stay,_  
_ Thy countenance_  
_ Lights land and sea_  
_ Eternally,_  
_ Thy name is France_  
_ Or Verity._  


He smiled at the memory. He thought of Prouvaire writing this poem with him in mind, and then, the melody became crystal clear. He opened his eyes again, seeing those same golden, shimmering notes from earlier floating through the air.

_Fair angel in thy glass_  
_ When vile things move or pass,_  
_ Clouds in the skies amass;_  
_ Terrible, alas!_  
_ Thy stern commands are then:_  
_ "Form your battalions, men,_  
_ The flag display!"_  
_ And all obey._  
_ Angel of might_  
_ Sent kings to smite,_  
_ The words in dark skies glance,_  
_ "Mené, Mené," hiss_  
_ Bolts that never miss!_  
_ Thy name is France,_  
_ Or Nemesis._

The light above him shone brighter as he sang, and he lifted his voice as much as he dared. Tiny pieces of rock fell from the ceiling again, making smaller chinks of light appear. The song soothed him, and he felt the light in his own soul grow stronger until he swore he saw some of that golden light burst through his fingertips, but then, he might have imagined it.

_As halcyons in May,_  
_ O nations, in his ray_  
_ Float and bask for aye,_  
_ Nor know decay!_  
_ One arm upraised to heaven_  
_ Seals the past forgiven;_  
_ One holds a sword_  
_ To quell hell's horde,_  
_ Angel of God!_  
_ Thy wings stretch broad_  
_ As heaven's expanse!_  
_ To shield and free_  
_ Humanity!_  
_ Thy name is France,_  
_ Or Liberty!_

Even his soft volume rang out louder than was wise, and he heard the last word echo around him.

_Liberty. _

_Liberty._

_Liberty._  


Up above, he’d been fighting to bring down a king.

Down here, he was fighting to bring down a guard.

Both held sway over their kingdoms, but Javert had a vulnerability. Enjolras had seen it in his eyes, those angry, melancholy gray eyes that screamed with fear.

Enjolras knew his own absolute. Love. It had always been love. A love for change that was so strong he would lay down his life for it. And even more than that, the only thing he loved more than that: his friends. His friends who expanded his mind. Who taught him. Who let him fly. The intensity of the feeling pushed against his chest, goosebumps racing down his arms. He knew himself, so close to the absolute end of things. He was nothing if not intense. Charmingly so, Bahorel always said, and the memory made Enjolras smile.

Javert was that way too. Not the charming part, of course, but the intensity. What was his absolute?

Not obedience. Not even authority.

His absolute was fear.

Enjolras had to find a way to creep beneath, not with a weapon, but with words. With music. With a song.

_What horizon is visible from the summit of the barricade? _A question he’d asked and answered, letting the words come forth from a place of inspiration deep inside him.

Now the question was, _what horizon is visible from the depths of hell? _

He had to find the answer.

He started hearing the faint sound of another melody in his head, the one heard faintly at the barricade and then again down here, his finger itching to write the sounds down. It still sounded like a lullaby. He wasn’t sure why that might be appropriate, but then, he remembered.

Fantine had said something about Javert being born down here. About his mother dying in this wretched place after he was torn from her.

He looked at the top poem of Jehan’s with his own scattered notes, his eyes running over the title again.

_Still Be A Child. _

Before he could think, before he could even realize he didn’t have a pen, footsteps came running toward him.

The footsteps of three guards, he realized.

He jumped up from the ground, putting Jehan’s poem safely in his pocket. His body still aches, but he feels stronger than he did a few minutes ago, the song rush rushing through him with an electric, undeniable energy.

“You idiot,” one guard said. “Running directly toward the light.”

“I’m warn you,” Enjolras replied, holding his fists in front of him. “I am no easy opponent.”

A second guard sneered, the one who seemed to hold authority over the other two. “Show him boys, and then let’s drag him back to Javert.”

Enjolras ducked the first punch, delivering a swift kick to the ribs of one of the guards even as a searing pain ran down his own side. He avoided a second punch too, but not a third, which connected hard with his jaw, the ring the guard was wearing swiping across his cheek and drawing a thin stripe of blood. He returned the punch to the same guard, knocking the other man flat on his back and making the other two look more hesitant than before.

“We’ll just see how much fight you have when Javert erases your memories,” the one who started the altercation growled. “You’ll be so dead inside you won’t even remember who you are, let alone what you think you’re fighting for.”

Enjolras jumped, surprised at the unexpected words.

That was one tale about Toulon he hadn’t heard.

How could they erase someone’s _memories_?

He remembered the tale of the river in Greek mythology—the River Lethe would erase memories of people’s past existence, but how could they replicate that here? Like the golden notes he’d conjured and the locks he’d undone, there was some element of magic down here, something more than the world above.

They were only using it for evil. Maybe he could turn it to good. Maybe he could start.

The two guards still on their feet—the third was still flat on his back, groaning—took advantage of his momentary shock. One put his arm around Enjolras’ neck, nearly cutting off his air supply, and the other swung straight for Enjolras’ stomach, and he did lose his breath for a moment, the punch of pain reverberating through him.

Then, he heard a voice. A voice that sounded like music.

“Let him go!”

Fantine.

Enjolras elbowed the guard holding him in the chest just as Fantine approached, knocking him away. Fantine kicked the other guard in the shins without a second thought, leaving all three on the ground.

Fantine spun toward the leader, scowling with both hands on her hips.

“Three against one?” she asked. “Not exactly honorable, Chevalier.”

Chevalier spat on the ground as he got up, rubbing the spot on his chest where Enjolras had elbowed him.

“Wench. You’ll get what’s coming to you for helping this brat.”

Fantine only stared him down with a glimmer of quiet rage in her eyes, and Enjolras looked on in admiration.

“Run back to Javert.” Fantine looked at each of the three guards, her long blonde braid swinging around. “Get away from here.”

Astonishingly, they did what she said, though not without shooting a dark look at both Enjolras as they left, at least one of them limping.

Fantine half-grinned at Enjolras, who looked back, fighting a smile even as his new injuries throbbed.

“You are good in a fight, aren’t you? I saw you taking them on from a distance.”

Enjolras shrugged, smiling fully now. “I know canne de combat.”

Fantine looked terribly fond, putting a hand on his bleeding cheek. “Of course you do. Are you all right?”

Enjolras nodded, though it was at least half a lie. “They got me in the stomach, and in the face, but it could be worse. The rocks cut me when Javert tossed me out the door. I’ll be all right.”

“Sit.” She gestured him to sit against the wall of rock, pulling a rag out of her pocket. “Let me at least clean the blood off you. You look a sight.”

He did as asked, finding her touch warm on his cheek. “Thank you for helping me. How did you get here? I assumed Javert might lock you in.”

She dabbed at the blood on his cheek, a few red spots coming away on the white cloth. “He did. But then I heard you singing, and it unlocked the door. I’ve never seen anything like it, but it worked. I followed the sound of your voice toward the light. One of your friend’s poems?”

Enjolras nodded as she pulled away.“It was called _Patria_. Apparently he wrote it with me in mind. It’s like he knew.” Enjolras shook his head. “Sometimes I think Jean Prouvaire is a prophet.”

Fantine smiled again, putting a hand on his uninjured cheek. “I brought you something.” She reached into her pocket again, pulling out a pen. “I thought you might need this. To finish the other poem.”

Enjolras took the pen from her with gratitude, and she sat silently beside him as he heard the lullaby from earlier in his head growing louder and louder and clearer and clearer, scribbling down the notes until he thought he had it down.

Then, words started appearing in his mind, alongside the notes.

They formed in front of his eyes in that same shimmering gold, and he realized he needed to add a stanza to Jehan’s beautiful, unfinished poem.

Actually, two stanzas.

He wrote them down furiously, stopping to look around at the single spot of light in this deep, dark place, one line of words appearing to him even brighter than all the others.

_Live, for joy sinks in night. _

Fantine glanced at the paper as he finished, looking as if she might cry. “A lullaby?”

“You were telling me about Javert’s mother,” Enjolras explained. “And I just…I started hearing the melody in my head. The rest of the one I was using to undo the locks. The one I heard faint strains of at the barricade. Valjean was right. I did need the song down here. Something about this place draws it out.”

Fantine scooted closer to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Valjean is right about a lot of things.”

“He seemed so kind, in my short experience. And incredibly brave, to escape this place.”

Fantine wiped a tear from her eye, clasping the locket around her neck. It must be something related to her daughter, Enjolras realized.

“He is,” Fantine replied, looking at the light. “Without him, I don’t know what would have happened to my Cosette.”

“So are you.” Enjolras met Fantine’s eyes again. “For surviving down here. For all the things you do for people up above, the gamins, women, everyone tells the stories. For helping me. I know what the risk is.”

Fantine pressed his shoulder, her arm still tight around him like the older sister he never had. “Something’s changing in this place. I can feel it. If I didn’t help you and your friends, I couldn’t live with myself.”

Enjolras paused before asking the next question, a real pang of fear in his stomach. “The guards said something about…erasing my memories? I didn’t understand.”

Fantine’s face went pale, and she looked back out into the dark. “Javert said something about that. I’ve seen it done, a few times. I don’t really understand how, but I saw a prisoner or two thrown into the river down here, and when they came back up, they didn’t know who they were. My hope is that this song of yours and your friend’s will help.”

Before either of them could say anything else more footsteps came near, though they sounded decidedly friendlier, somehow.

_Lots _of footsteps, in fact.

When Enjolras looked up, he couldn’t believe the sight before his eyes.

Seventy-five prisoners. Maybe one-hundred, standing before him.

His friends were at the lead.

He got up, and he ran.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre caught him at once, and then the others gathered in. A cool, impossible breeze blew threw as they all embraced, and Enjolras had the impulse to ask Combeferre what he thought of the magic in this place.

“You’re bleeding,” Combeferre pointed out as they all pulled apart. “What happened?”

“The guards,” Enjolras explained, still with Jehan’s poem in hand. “It’s all right. Fantine helped me.”

He turned toward Jean Prouvaire, who already had tears in his eyes.

“We heard you singing,” Prouvaire said, putting both hands on Enjolras’ shoulders. “That was my poem. I wrote it for you.”

“I know.” Enjolras hugged Prouvaire close even if it made his sore body protest, feeling perhaps more intimately connected to his friend than ever before. Prouvaire had always encouraged him back toward the music of his childhood, and Enjolras never seemed to find the time. “It helped me finish the melody for the other poem. And write a few more stanzas. You…you are so talented, Jean Prouvaire. If things change down here, it will be because of you.”

“Oh.” Prouvaire shook his head. “Not just me.”

Bahorel laughed, the sound echoing oddly in this vastness of this place. “These folks want to help us out, Enjolras. They heard the song, too. Patria, wasn’t it?” Bahorel winked, making some of the other prisoners laugh.

_Laughter_. Even in hell, laughter.

One of the prisoners stepped forward as Courfeyrac placed an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, hugging him close.

“We heard that song of yours,” the man said. “Saw that it made some more light come in this place. We want to help you and your friends, if we can.”

“We’d like to help you.” Enjolras reached out from within Courfeyrac’s grasp, pressing the man’s hand. “To make some change down here.”

Enjolras looked around at the gathered prisoners, getting a closer look at them for the first time in the quiet moment. The men wore tan trousers and red shirts, and the women pale green dresses. All of them looked underfed and lacking sleep, their skin marked with cuts and bruises. Enjolras knew they made things down here that went back up to the world above, without pay, and with long hours, but the visible evidence was shocking. Some of the men’s hands were covered in soot like they’d been shoveling coal into some kind of heat source, and they looked perhaps the most exhausted of all.

“Fantine has helped us all,” one of the women chimed in. “And we knew if she was helping you, we wanted to help too.”

Before Enjolras could say anything else, before any of them could come up with a plan, more footsteps approached, the sound of dozens of boots scraping against the rock.

A sharp, harsh voice echoed through the air.

“Well. You all like to make quite the spectacle, don’t you?”

Javert.

Javert with what looked like at least three-quarters of all the guards in Toulon. The others, were probably guarding any possible way out.

Javert strode forward with another of the guards, both his eyebrows raised as he stopped right in front of Enjolras.

“You aren’t very smart, are you? Singing. Going toward the light. You should have turned tail and left, boy. Or at least tried.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, but Javert cut him off.

“I think we’ve all heard quite enough from you.” Javert gestured toward the guard next to him. “Gag him, please. None of us need to hear his voice again.”

Enjolras tried to resist, but three more guards gathered around him, one kicking him in the stomach and forcing him toward his knees. He wanted to fight, but even as the energy from the song surged in his spirit, his body was swiftly giving out after the confrontation with the guards, compounded on top of the barricade and his walk here, not to mention Javert throwing him to the ground.

“Enjolras!” Feuilly shouted, making to help, but he too, was knocked to the ground, helped up by Joly and Bossuet, who both paled, holding tight to Feuilly and each other.

The guard pushed the gag into Enjolras’ mouth and tied it before pushing him over to Javert, who did the work of binding Enjolras hands with rope himself. Javert tied the rope tighter than needed, the rough material cutting through Enjolras’ skin, his hands immobile in front of him.

“Now…” Javert chuckled, a dark, terrible sound with just a touch of madness around the edges. “We all need to make a visit to the river. Don’t you think?”

Enjolras couldn’t answer. 

* * *

Javert dragged Enjolras toward the river. He held tight to the boy’s collar, everyone following in their wake.

Javert could smell the riot coming. He could feel it deep in bones.

There were more prisoners than guards, down here. He’d petitioned for more, but fear seemed to keep them in line well enough, and the sheer magnitude of what it would take to escape. Still, he’d always seen the potential for issues.

He’d seen the potential for one voice to startle the wretches down here awake again.

He heard the water running as they approached the river, aptly named The River of Forgetting by anyone who was down here, but even he barely knows the origins of the terrible magic contained within.

_It was down there before Toulon was_, one of his superiors told him years ago. _It’s why we chose to build the place so far down. People might like to think they want to forget when things get hard, but they don’t. It keeps them in line, doesn’t it? Some say the river used to have the power to make memories clearer, memories that time has made blurry. They say it turned dark, one day, living on the misery of the prisoners. Could be nonsense, of course. _

Javert had only administered this punishment to perhaps ten prisoners in all his years here, and he remembers each one, because those prisoners died sooner than the rest.

_Maybe it’s a remnant of the old world_, he once heard another guard say. _Something the gods left behind. I worry about using it too often. Who’s to say it won’t tear our own souls in half? _

Javert stopped when they he reached the river’s edge, feeling the presence of fifty guards and almost one-hundred prisoners behind him, the whole of Toulon pulsing with electricity and life. He tossed Enjolras down to the ground inches away from the water, the damp dirt slicking the boy’s long, loose hair with moisture. That wasn’t enough to do damage—they’d learned you needed full submersion for that—but it made clear Javert’s intentions. The water glowed silver in the dimness of Toulon, brighter, somehow, than the torches on the walls.

The eight other rebels stood at the front of the group of prisoners, each and every one of them looking ready to fight. His guards stood at the perimeter with their weapons at the ready, and Javert suspected it was that and only that keeping the prisoners in line. Javert turned back around toward Enjolras when he felt a kick at the back of his calf, spinning around with a growl on his lips.

“Stop it, boy! It’s over.” Javert kneeled down on the ground, overcome with a rage so punctuated with fear that it whisked the breath from his lungs. As his knees hit the ground the river overflowed just slightly, silver water pooling around his trouser leg and soaking through Enjolras’ dirty hair. He grasped the collar of Enjolras’ shirt then pressed him down to the ground, leaning over and staring him straight in the eyes. “You can’t do anything, don’t you see? There’s nothing you can do. Your barricade was a lost cause. Coming down here was a lost cause. Every thought you ever had about changing the world was a lost cause.”

Enjolras gave an involuntary jolt, tears filling up his bright blue eyes, which only looked more startling in the dark than they had on the barricade when he’d given Javert water. Javert pushed him down harder, the gathered crowd’s gasp cutting through the air.

“Love is not that powerful. A song is useless.” Javert leaned even closer, taking note of the cut Enjolras’ face, crusted with dried blood. The guards must have gotten to him. “Nothing changes.”

A voice pierced the air.

“Stop it!”

One of the rebels.

Javert didn’t let go of Enjolras, but he did turn his head, spotting a small, lanky young man with reddish blond hair staring at him with all the rage of an inferno.

“You can’t break him.” The young man spoke again. What was his name? Prouvaire? Javert scarcely remembered. “Stop putting on a show.”

Javert narrowed his eyes, his voice coming out softer than he wanted. “Everyone breaks, young man. Quiet, or the rest of your friends will find yourselves with the same fate.”

Another rebel, the one with the spectacles, stepped up beside his friend, and when he spoke there was harsh, sarcastic edge to his voice. “If a song were so useless, why would you gag him? You’re afraid, and that’s the truth.”

Javert glared at the bespectacled young man, and next to him Enjolras tried desperately to say something through the gag, but Javert only clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Javert, stop it.” Fantine echoed the first rebel’s words, daring to step up close to the river’s edge, and she fought back tears as she met Enjolras’ eyes. “You’re being needlessly cruel. And I won’t stand for it.”

Javert got up from the ground, putting a foot on Enjolras’ chest so he couldn’t move. “You won’t stand for it, will you? I assume you’ll stand for it just fine when I tell you that if you say one more word, you will never see the above world again.”

Fantine clenched her fists, and for just a moment, Javert thought he’d won.

But then she closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and started to sing.

Her voice was lower than Enjolras, an alto to his high tenor, but the words came out with a beautiful ease even though they trembled at the start.

She was singing the melody, the words he heard that undid the locks, somehow.

_Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life. _

Enjolras’ song.

“Stop!” Javert commanded.

But she didn’t listen. She didn’t listen even as the other guards started shouting. She sang louder, and the prisoners started singing with her, more and more of them as each second passed, all their voices resounding together in the vast, echoing space of Toulon like a chorus of hope in the darkness. They repeated those words over and over and over again until Javert couldn’t hear anything else.

“Enough!” Javert’s shout was a thunderous crash, and finally, the singing stopped, but he swore he could still hear it in the air. He paused, looking straight at Fantine and then around at the prisoners, rebellion alive in each and every face.

Even the guards looked unnerved.

“Let him sing!” one of the prisoners shouted. “We want to hear again. We liked the one he was singing, about liberty.”

Javert looked around the group, hearing the sneer in his own voice. “You want to hear him _again_, do you?”

Javert pulled Enjolras up from the ground, several of the rebels shouting _no!_ simultaneously and stepping toward him, drawing the weapons of the guards in their direction. Javert undid the gag in Enjolras’ mouth as he gestured at the other guards to form an entire perimeter around the rest of the crowd, blocking them on all sides.

He knew better than to untie Enjolras’ hands.

He shoved the boy toward the middle of the circle and away from the river, pretending like fear wasn’t coursing through him. Pretending like he wasn’t a hair’s breadth away from a riot. Pretending like he wasn’t already shaken to his core. The pang that went through him when Valjean let him go was only amplified now, but he couldn’t let them know that.

“You want to hear him sing, do you?” Javert releases the words like a growl. “All right. We’ll listen to him sing.” He stepped up toward Fantine, grasping her wrist. “And then, when it doesn’t make a difference, know that you trapped yourself down here forever. For nothing.”

Javert stepped away before he could register Fantine’s reaction, but he did hear a stifled, bitten back sob behind him. He made to walk back toward Enjolras, feeling someone seize his wrist hard and tight and unforgiving.

He turned toward the offender, seeing the rebel in the glaring red waistcoat. He was almost as tall and surely as broad as Javert, a flash of fury in his light brown eyes.

“You should know that my friend was right.” He squeezed Javert’s wrist to the point of pain. “You can’t break Enjolras.”

Javert tried pulling his wrist away, but he didn’t quite succeed. “Let go of me.”

The rebel leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “I think you know that your kingdom here is weak enough to fall for a song, because a song can topple things much more powerful than this place.”

Javert finally tugged free, and the rebel stepped back, reaching over to put an arm around the one called Prouvaire’s shoulders. Javert walked back up toward Enjolras, stepping close.

“All right, boy…” He leaned in close, meeting Enjolras’ eyes dead on, pleased when he saw a tiny hint of fear. Pleased when he saw that the lad was shaking from exhaustion or nerves or some mixture of the two. “Sing a song for me. Now.” 

* * *

Enjolras couldn’t dry his eyes where the tears had leaked out, and the moisture felt sticky on his skin. The rope was still tight around his wrists, and he realized he couldn’t pull the song out of his pocket.

He looked at Javert, keeping his voice even. “I need you to untie my hands.”

Javert looked back, a strange glint of mania in his eyes. “No. Absolutely not.”

“The song is in my pocket. If you want me to sing it, I have to see it.”

“Someone can hold it for you then,” Javert sneered. “Choose.”

Enjolras met Jean Prouvaire’s eyes. His friend walked forward without hesitation, and he was already crying. His tears looked silver again somehow, though Enjolras swore he saw just a small sparkle of gold when they hit the ground. Enjolras looked at Fantine as Prouvaire pulled the poem out, mouthing a silent _thank you_ to her and earning a smile in return.

“Jehan started this song,” Enjolras said, nodding his head at Prouvaire. “And I did my best to finish it.”

Javert rolled his eyes, taking a stool one of the other guards handed him and slamming it down on the ground nearby. He crossed his arms as he sat, like he was trying to look more casual than he felt.

“I don’t care where the song came from, boy. _Sing it_, or I can just throw you in the river now.”

Enjolras sucked in a quiet breath, feeling a drop of fear fall into his stomach with a nauseating splash. There were no weapons here. There’s no barricade. There’s no smoke hanging in the air from comrades nearby, fighting the same fight with him.

It’s just these prisoners. His friends. Fantine.

And a song.

His words and Jehan’s all mixed into one, accentuated by the notes he wrote not an hour past. He thought of how easily the words had come to him on the barricade, how that burst of light broke through his soul and drew them forth. Those words had been warm as they left him, spilling sunshine across the barricade even as night kept hold.

He remembered how he’d felt as a child singing his songs and learning to write those notes on a page, the talent fallen dusty and half-used as hew grew older, thinking he didn’t have time for it with all the work for the cause the was every single beat of his heart.

Now, he realized just how much the song, the music, could be a part of it.

Jean Prouvaire, of course, was right.

“You can do it,” Prouvaire whispered, drawing Enjolras back into the present moment. “I know you can.”

Enjolras smiled and took a deep breath.

Then, he started to sing.

His voice came out like flawless, liquid gold, the words flowing forth with an ease he never expected.

_In youthful spirits wild,_  
_ Smile, for all beams on thee;_  
_ Sport, sing, be still the child,_  
_ The flower, the honey-bee._

_Bring not the future near,_  
_ For Joy too soon declines—_  
_ What is man's mission here?_  
_ Toil, where no sunlight shines!_

He looked at Javert as he sang, meeting the man’s eyes directly. Javert stared back at him, the color receding from his cheeks.

“Where did you get that melody?” he asked, and he looked terrified, shadowed memories flitting across his face.

Enjolras wondered if he’d stumbled across the tune of the lullaby Javert’s mother sang to him, set to his and Prouvaire’s words. Had the music buried itself in the depths of Toulon, coming out again when Enjolras needed to turn the heart of the child it once soothed? Had fate known he would end up down here, when he heard the first strains at the barricade? When he heard it more clearly as he walked down the railroad tracks?

Fantine held up a hand. “Let him finish, Javert. That was the agreement.”

Javert jumped at the sound of Fantine’s voice and grasped the fabric of his trousers around the knees, scraping his fingers back and forth.

Enjolras kept singing.

_Our lot is hard, we know;_  
_ From eyes so gayly beaming,_  
_ Whence rays of beauty flow,_  
_ Salt tears most oft are streaming._  
  
_ Free from emotions past,_  
_ All joy and hope possessing,_  
_ With mind in pureness cast,_  
_ Sweet ignorance confessing._

The words landed like golden teardrops on the rock beneath Enjolras’ feet, shaped like music notes. Enjolras realized he was crying, too. He could hear Prouvaire sniffling close in his ear, though the hand holding the paper remained steady. He looked up at Javert for a split second, and Javert just kept staring at him with wide, frightened eyes like some kind of trapped creature in a cage. Enjolras looked down at the paper once more, but then the words and the notes seemed to flow into his mind, and he didn’t need to see it anymore.

He knew the song by heart.

_ Plant, safe from winds and showers,_  
_ Heart with soft visions glowing,_  
_ In childhood's happy hours_  
_ A mother's rapture showing._  
  
_ Loved by each anxious friend,_  
_ No carking care within—_  
_ When summer gambols end,_  
_ My winter sports begin._

The air went out of the room. Enjolras took once glance at his friends for strength, at Fantine for inspiration, at the other prisoners for steadiness, at Jean Prouviaire for a reminder of his thanks, and then it was just him, and Javert. It was fear and love and love and fear all tied together in a tight coil, indistinguishable from one another.

Javert was crying. Enjolras watched the tears spring to his eyes and stream down his face, the final lock undone. Then came the next stanzas: the first belonged to Prouvaire, but the second Enjolras had written with his own hand.

_Sweet poesy from heaven_  
_ Around thy form is placed,_  
_ A mother's beauty given,_  
_ By father's thought is graced!_  
  
_ Seize, then, each blissful second,_  
_ Live, for joy sinks in night,_  
_ And those whose tale is reckoned,_  
_ Have had their days of light._

Enjolras’ voice melted into the air, the teardrop music notes swirling upward toward the ceiling. Javert gasped when the second stanza began, mouthing the words like he knew them.

Everything started rumbling.

Above.

Beneath.

Everywhere.

Pieces of rock started falling from the ceiling nearby, revealing chinks of warm, golden light.

The sun.

It streamed in with an astonishing power that was welcoming and blinding all at once.

Javert didn’t move.

He was humming the melody now. And then, somehow...somehow Javert was singing the last words in time with Enjolras like he knew them. Like he’d known them forever.

_Then, oh! before we part,_  
_ The poet's blessing take,_  
_ Ere bleeds that aged heart,_  
_ Or child the woman make._

Enjolras’ voice died off into the stunning silence.

No one moved. No one spoke. For a moment, it felt like no one breathed.

The golden haze hung in the air, a tangible piece of the song still surrounding them.

Javert got up.

Enjolras started. He couldn’t help it. Not after what Javert had said to him earlier, the way he’d pressed him down to the ground with that wild look in his eyes.

_Every thought you ever had about changing the world was a lost cause. _

Enjolras chanced a glance at the river behind him, thinking that it glowed less silver than before, the water looking murky and gray instead, as if it drew upon the steadiness of Toulon’s Chief Guard. He walked up to Enjolras, pulling a knife out of his pocket and looking very much as if he was afraid to touch him at all.

Enjolras heard a cry of protest from both Fantine and Courfeyrac, before they realized what Javert was about.

For a moment, Enjolras wasn’t sure himself.

Javert pulled Enjolras’ hands forward and cut the rope undone, the pieces falling to the river’s edge and into the water, pulled down by the current.

“Those last two stanzas you sang…” Javert’s voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t had a sip of water in a thousand years. “I know them. My mother sang them to me. Where did they come from?”

“I…” For once, Enjolras stumbled over his words. “I just…they came to me like the melody that got me down here, when I saw Jehan’s poem. Those were the words I needed to finish it.”

“Wait for me here,” Javert said, his voice broken into a thousand tiny pieces. He looked at the Amis and the prisoners and the guards and then finally, at Fantine. “All of you just wait for me here.” He stood in front of Fantine for a long, pained moment that might have lasted a century for how long it felt. When he spoke again, Enjolras felt the ground shudder beneath him once more.

“Fantine, I…” Javert stopped, looking like he couldn’t string a sentence together. “Wait here.” 

Fantine didn’t--or perhaps couldn’t--answer, but she was shaking all over.

Javert didn’t quite run away, but he walked with a swiftness that gave away his upset. Enjolras stood there staring after him, wondering what on earth might happen next.

“Well, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, putting an awkward but warm hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “I think you broke him. With some help from Jehan.”

Enjolras gave Grantaire a smile before turning toward Fantine, whose face had gone chalk-white. She grasped the hand of one of the other female prisoners, whose face showed her age.

She must have been down here a long while.

“I’m so sorry Fantine,” Enjolras said, shaking his head and approaching her. “I’m sorry if I damned you down here.”

Fantine took his hand with her free one, holding it tight. “I don’t think you did, dear. I just...I don’t know what will happen now.”

Enjolras pulled her hand toward him, pressing a kiss to the knuckles before letting go, his friends crowding around him in one knot of arms and enduring warmth.

He’d come here for them, and he wouldn’t leave them. Not now. Not ever. Combeferre leaned in close to his ear from his place in the tangled embrace, his voice nothing more than a whisper.

“Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life.”

Then, all they could do was wait.

* * *

Javert walked out of sight of the crowd of prisoners. He hadn’t even given the guards an order, he realized. No order except a general _wait for me_.

He went toward the spot where the River of Forgetting began, the water now without its eerie silver glow. The river ran gray and almost black in places, as if it might have lost its power.

Could the boy have broken such an ancient thing?

Of course, no song other than the terrible work chant had been sung down here for decades. Not since the lullaby his mother sang to him as boy.

How had Enjolras stumbled upon that melody? He’d heard it and set the words from his own speech to it, and that got him down here. That had undone locks all over Javert’s own prison. Being in Toulon had only seemed to strengthen the song, and Enjolras heard the rest of it then, he must have, after he ran away, writing the notes down next to his friend’s poetry, though he seemed to not even need the paper the longer he sang. And then, those words. Those last words of his song, that Javert knew.

Javert stood at the edge of the river, the dead water running over the toes of his boots.

If he threw himself in there, would he still lose his memory? He was tempted. He was more than tempted. If he threw himself in the water, he could forget. He could forget the small seed of hope the sound of Enjolras’ song had planted in his chest. Hope only leads to pain. It leads to disappointment. It leads to loss.

God, how much wrong had he done? To Valjean. To Fantine. To so many people down here.

How much wrong had he done himself?

A sharp, bittersweet pain ran up in a jagged crack inside his chest, leaving him raw and open and bleeding.

What did he do now?

He couldn’t let all nine of the rebels go. If he did all that at once, it would cause a riot down here, for one. It would cause a riot among his superiors above, for certain, no matter how much power he had down here as Chief Guard, which was a considerable amount.

He looked around, realizing with full clarity the depths of his own cruelty. It had grown darker and darker down here since he took charge, and it was dark down here to begin with. He’d kept a mother from her child. He’d used the full might of his power over a man who had done nothing more than steal to feed his loved ones.

He’d been raised in darkness. Maybe that condemned him to this.

But then, he’d made his choices. Out of fear. Always fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of failure. Fear fear fear.

What was he going to _do_?

Ideas started coming to him. Ideas about changes to make down here. Changes that might filter to the world above. Ideas that might get rejected outright by people with more power than him.

Still, he did have power. More than he’d ever dreamed of. They didn’t hand the keys to this hell to just anyone.

_Though_...the dark voice in his head whispered in a snide, cruel voice. Maybe they’d only given him the key because they already possessed his soul. His fearful, miserable soul.

He’d been the last child raised in Toulon, after all.

After they took him away, no child was born down here. Any woman sentenced to Toulon gave birth first, above ground, and then well...none of those children would ever know their mother like he’d known his, however briefly.

He closed his eyes, letting himself think of his mother. He never did, usually, because emotions were useless to him.

The deadly, poisonous combination of Valjean’s mercy and Enjolras’ song had changed that.

That, and Fantine’s eyes during the song. He’d met them for a fleeting second, grief for her daughter shimmering in the star-drop tears that fell from her eyes, leaving faint traces of gold on her cheeks.

He’d done that.

He’d done to Fantine just what the old guards of Toulon did to his mother.

He saw his mother’s face, weary from years she had not yet lived, though her youth had been visible in her deep brown eyes. He had no memory of his father because his father had never been in Toulon, though he was a galley slave somewhere else. Javert undid the ribbon keeping his long hair back, fingering the deep black strands, inherited from his mother. He sat down on the edge of the river, burying his face in his hands, his fingers sliding back toward his hair with a tight, unforgiving grasp.

As if he hoped he could wrestle the emotions of out himself so that he might never feel again.

What did one do, when they haven’t felt for so long, and a lifetime’s worth of emotions came crashing down all at once?

Crying wasn’t even the right word for it.

He _sobbed_. He released his hair and covered his face with his palms to stifle the noise. He couldn’t let them hear him, because he didn’t know what to do. He heard his mother’s alto resounding deep inside his memory, mixing with Enjolras’ eerie, golden falsetto. He sniffed, wiping the tears away with the back of his hands and half-hating himself. Perhaps entirely hating himself. He pulled a scrap of paper and a pen out of his pocket, usually kept there to make note of anything that needed fixing around Toulon, or a reminder to do something later on.

Now, he started writing things down. Things about improving this place. Things to make it kinder.

  1. Work to bring more light in. Darkness is inevitable underground, but I could institute more spaces of light. It might even improve the prisoners’ work.
  2. Build more barracks, with wider spaces. It will prevent the spread of illness and allow more comfort. Illness is constantly a problem, here.
  3. Allow prisoners to send letters to their families, which could be taken above on the train a few times a year
  4. Release from Toulon to a regular prison based on good-behavior, or institute regular sentencing as opposed to an irreversible life-sentence. A life sentence here usually means death after too long, because of the conditions. Even if conditions improve, the lack of light and fresh air take their toll. This cuts down on the work the prisoners do, as well as any possible rehabilitation efforts.

He stopped, a thousand thoughts running through his head. This list still did not answer the question of his response. Enjolras had come down here to retrieve his friends. He’d come with the intention of their freedom, even, potentially, at the expense of his own, though it was clear he hoped for all of them go back up together. That wouldn’t do. That would make the other prisoners’ attempts to run away increase, no doubt. But he if he did nothing, they would riot just as much. He could neither be too harsh, nor too kind.

One of them could go. Yes, that was it. That would do, for now. He needed to show them that something had changed in him, but if he did more than that, there would definitely be problems with his superiors above. Problems that might end with him removed, and then, nothing would change at all.

He’s also not ready for more. This would have to be enough. It was more than Toulon had given anyone in years, in any case.

Javert knew Enjolras wouldn’t pick himself—he didn’t think so, anyway—but who would he choose? The poet? The one with the spectacles he was very clearly close with? The fiery one with the curly brown hair?

Javert didn’t know, but he would leave the choice up to Enjolras himself.

That was the only thing that could work.

He owed Enjolras. He owed him for the song. So therefore it was just in Javert’s mind, and hopefully in the minds of the prisoners, that Enjolras could choose his own fate. That he could receive something in return for doing the impossible.

Softening Javert’s heart.

Yes. That was it. That was what he would do.

His reputation was altered, he realized. But he could not give everything away all at once. He could not change everything all at once.

But things_ were_ changed.

He barely knew where to go from here.

All he could do was get up, standing for a long moment with the toes of his boots in the water, watching the river run in shades of black and gray over the leather. He walked away with one glance back at the river, the sound of the rushing water overloud in his ears.

Then, he looked up.

And walked forward. 

* * *

Enjolras heard the gasp indicating Javert’s arrival before he saw him. The guards stood around the crowd of prisoners with their weapons poised for attack, though their eyes darted around nervously, knowing full well they were outnumbered, and their main weapon of fear wasn’t as powerful as it had been an hour ago, though they were still armed, of course. His friends and Fantine stood around him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac each clasping one of his hands. Bahorel stood with his arms around both Feuilly and Jehan’s shoulders, while Joly stood between Bossuet and Grantaire, his arms encircling their waists.

Fantine looked over at Enjolras, meeting his eyes with a hot spark of defiance. “I won’t let him harm you. I promise.”

Enjolras made to argue, but Javert stepped up before he could say anything, exhaustion splashed across his face. Pure, absolute silence rang around the gathered crowd, but Enjolras felt the tension buzzing through, threatening to explode. If Javert said the wrong thing, there would be a riot. There were more of them, but they didn’t have weapons, and the guards did. Blood would spill on the ground, if this went ill.

Javert had a piece of paper in his hand, though he didn’t offer it out to anyone just yet.

“I…” Javert cleared his throat. “I have had some time to think, and I have come up with some preliminary ideas of some changes to make here. I will share them once they are finalized.”

“Like _what_?” A prisoner’s disbelieving question stabbed the air, accusatory.

Javert cleared his throat again, sounding very much as if he was trying to crush his own annoyance. “Finding ways to bring more light into this place, improving sleeping conditions to prevent illness, allowing the sending and receiving of letters, and…” Javert cut himself off as if he couldn’t say the final idea just yet. “And things like that.”

Enjolras watched Fantine’s face change, shock flashing in her eyes. “And what of Enjolras’ punishment? Have you changed your mind?”

Javert met her gaze, something like shame buried not so deep in his expression. “Yes.” He gestured at the river. “I am not certain the river holds its power anymore, regardless.”

“And?” Fantine spoke again, demanding the rest.

Javert folded the piece of paper and put it in his coat pocket, wiping droplets of sweat from his brow. “I will sanction the release of one prisoner.”

Enjolras swallowed, finally speaking. “With what conditions attached?”

Javert looked at him, and Enjolras saw something different in him, now. Something changed.

“The only condition is that you choose. It is just, after…what happened. You may include yourself in that number.”

Enjolras stared at Javert, feeling his heart start pounding as nausea crept up his throat, the power of a more than a hundred pairs of eyes resting on him.

How could he…?

He closed his eyes, making himself accept that he would remain here. He could not and would not choose himself. He’d always known prison might be an outcome for his actions, though the thought of staying in this place does make his very bones feel heavy.

But maybe…maybe Javert is genuine about making changes down here. Maybe Enjolras could convince him to make more. Enjolras looked at each of his friends in turn, the impossibility of the choice looming all around him.

He couldn’t…

How could he ever….

Wait.

Javert hadn’t said _choose one of your friends_. He’d said _choose one prisoner_.

Fantine.

He could set Fantine free.

He shut his eyes once more, letting the pain of damning all of his friends to this place rush through him with a hot ferocity that made his blood bubble with grief. They would be together. They would make change. They would they would they _would_.

He repeated the words inside his head as he opened his eyes, looking straight at Fantine.

“No,” she said, immediate and fierce.

“Yes.” Enjolras stepped toward her, a gasp going up from the crowd again.

“I didn’t ask you to sacrifice your freedom or the freedom of one of your friends for me,” Fantine insisted, taking Enjolras’ hand tightly in her own.

Enjolras squeezed her fingers, feeling emotion vibrating through every part of him. “You never would. But it’s the only thing that makes sense. If one of us should go, it should be you.”

Tears filled Fantine’s eyes when she took Enjolras’ other hand, her fair hair that was so like his own somehow glowing brighter in the dimness. “Don’t make me live with that.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I don’t want you to live with it like a burden. I just want you to live. You can be with your daughter. You can take care of Valjean. You’ve been separated from them for long enough. I…” he looks around at his friends, feeling tears in his eyes. “We knew what we were getting into, when he built that barricade.”

Fantine turned toward Javert, still keeping hold of one of Enjolras’ hands. “Surely you didn’t mean me, when you set down this decree.”

Javert’s eyes widened, and he ran a hand through his hair. “I meant anyone. That includes you.” Javert glanced at Enjolras, still looking surprised. “Is that your choice, Enjolras?”

Enjolras looked at each of his friends, receiving no argument. Each of them nodded in turn, and Jean Prouvaire spoke a soft “yes” as Bahorel squeezed his shoulder in comfort. None of them wanted to be separated, and though all of them were cut up from the barricade, they weren’t so hurt they couldn’t survive down here. Enjolras could either damn his friends down here, or he could damn one of them to live alone without the rest. But Fantine…Fantine could truly be free. Fantine could see her daughter, finally. Fantine could help Valjean. Fantine could speak for them in the world up above.

It was the only answer.

“Yes. That’s my choice.”

Enjolras’ quiet words echoed in the dark, and he swore he felt the ground give another small rumble.

Javert’s gaze flickered to Fantine and away again, as if he couldn’t quite bear to see her face. “Well. In that case, I will take you back to Paris on the train tomorrow morning, Fantine. Be ready, please.” He stepped toward Enjolras, taking his wrist in his grasp. “We need to get you processed, young man.”

But Fantine wouldn’t let go of Enjolras’ hand.

“Let go, Fantine.” Javert sounded broken, but his voice still rang with the sharpness of an order.

Fantine pulled Enjolras’ hand toward her, placing a kiss on her knuckles as he’d done to her earlier, all the love of a sister in her touch. She finally let go, not without a sob breaking free from her lips.

Feuilly stepped forward and away from Bahorel’s arm, Jehan reaching out and grabbing his shirt before he could go too far. Tears streamed down Feuilly’s face, but he clenched his fists, ever persistent.

“How are we supposed to trust you with him? You wanted to erase his entire memory an hour ago.”

Combeferre stepped up next to Feuilly, his eyes flashing behind his spectacles. “Same question.”

Courfeyrac frowned, opening his mouth to speak as well, and all of Enjolras’ friends formed a line, ready to defend him. Javert held up a hand, not half so threatening as he’d been an hour ago.

“You may have the guards escort you to my office in a half-hour’s time,” Javert said. “Where he will be returned in exactly the same condition. Better, no doubt.” His eyes flicked over, grimacing when he looked at Enjolras’ state. “Your clothes are ruined, and you’ll need a new bandage for your head. And for your other wounds I see you’ve sustained.”

Enjolras studied his clothes, realizing how right Javert was. His navy-blue coat he’d abandoned back by the light, and his shirt and trousers, even his red cravat, were tattered and dirty.

“Wounds your guards gave him!” Courfeyrac shouted. “Are you going to answer for that?”

Javert’s eyes flicked to Courfeyrac, looking irritated. “I will let your doctor friend look him over when we’re done, in our infirmary.” Javert gestured at Joly, who looked truly angry for the first time in Enjolras’ memory, but he spared a smile for Enjolras himself. “As I said, a half hour.”

Javert finally tugged him away, and Enjolras watched as Fantine gathered the rest of the Amis closer to her, the other prisoners forming a messy circle around them as the guards lowered their weapons.

Then, it was just Enjolras and Javert. They walked a short distance, and neither spoke until they were out of earshot of the group. Enjolras’ head throbbed from the wound at the barricade, his side aching from where Javert had thrown him to the ground, the cuts from the rocks stabbing him like needles every now and again. His whole body hurt, and it would be a while before that went away.

“Why?”

Javert’s voice broke into the air with all the pain of a lost child, and Enjolras heard his earlier melody echo in the cavernous prison that was his new home.

Enjolras knew the answer, he’d known it as soon as he made his choice.

“Because I can be with my family. And Fantine can be with hers.” He paused, measuring the risk of his next words. “And I’m sorry you won’t see yours again, Javert. Truly.”

Javert stopped dead in his tracks, exhaling a long-held breath. He released his tight grip on Enjolras’ wrist, allowing him to walk on his own. He didn’t look at Enjolras, but instead at the prison around them, buried here beneath the earth.

“So am I.”

Enjolras wiped some of the now drying blood from his cheek away, surprised to say the least when Javert handed him a handkerchief to wipe some of it away.

“I...my apologies for...tossing you out as hard as I did. Earlier.” Javert cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I admit I did so largely in anger. I ought to know better but I…well I have been allowed to treat prisoners as I will.”

“I doubt this place is unfamiliar with violence.” Enjolras couldn’t and wouldn’t keep the judgement out of his voice. Javert needed to hear it.

“No.” Javert spoke in an oddly soft tone. “It isn’t.”

They kept walking, and Enjolras couldn’t stop himself from asking a question of his own.

“What was the last change you didn’t mention? I could tell you were leaving something out.”

Javert did look at him then, and Enjolras noticed that his gray eyes looked less like a storm than before.

“That I would try and see if people who end up here might one day be released, under the right circumstances. Instead of being condemned for life. Either to a prison above ground, or on parole. People don’t…very few last terribly long, away from the sun. Even guards take new details after a few years. I go above myself once a month but then…well I am accustomed to the dark. I had to leave for a stretch of months years ago, because my health failed me. But I came back. Those months were when I ran into Valjean again. And made the deal with Fantine. So Toulon followed me above, anyway.”

Enjolras wiped his eyes, looking up toward the chinks of golden light the song had brought into view.

“I hope you’ll be able to accomplish that. I think today…it was a start. It has to be.” Enjolras breathed in deep, holding onto the light within himself, darkness creeping around him from all sides as a deep, icy cold runs down his spine.

_You are not alone_, he reminded himself. _You are not alone._

_What if he’s tricking you_, another, snider voice asked. _What if he only plans to kill you, away from the rest? _

_No_. He shoves the thought away, even as his breath grows shallower.

He heard a line from his earlier song echo through Toulon like a long-delayed note, a line he’d written himself. A line Javert knew. Had he uncovered it from the depths of this place because he was listening?

_Live, for joy sinks in night. _

They reached what must have been Javert’s office soon after, and Javert directed Enjolras toward the chair opposite an imposing mahogany desk. They filled out paperwork for a few minutes, and it felt so clinical, so cold, for a place where Enjolras might well spend the rest of his life.

But maybe not. Maybe not.

Javert rose and turned toward a cabinet behind him when they were finished, pulling out a pair of tan trousers and a red shirt. “Change, if you please. Then I’ll take you to the infirmary and let your friend clean you up. Stubborn, your lot.”

Enjolras swore he saw Javert smile. It was a fleeting ghost of a thing, but he saw it.

Enjolras took the clothes, his hands shaking, his thoughts starting to become overwhelming, creating a screeching, dissonant chorus in his head.

_How could you do this to your friends? _

_You said you would get them out of here? _

_How could you fail?_

This place was doing this to him. He knew it was. He shoved the thoughts away again, harder this time.

Enjolras went behind a curtain to change, seeing the shallow, jagged cuts the rocks had made near his ribcage, touching each one with single finger. The clothes fit him well enough, and Javert handed him a black ribbon as he stepped out, indicating he should keep his hair tied back.

Before they went outside, Javert stopped by the door, looking hesitant. “That melody you sang…Where did you get it? The first time, I mean.”

Enjolras shrugged, still feeling the music from earlier living somewhere deep within him, the music arguing with the black thoughts trying to take root in his mind. “I don’t know. I looked at Prouvaire’s partial poem and just...heard it. Saw it, almost. Maybe it could only come to me here, though I heard strains of it at the barricade. And then louder when I started walking down here. Just not the whole thing.”

Javert nodded, not saying anything else as they went outside the door, met immediately by the Amis and a few guards, who took them all to the infirmary so Joly could clean Enjolras up. Even in prison Joly was still a bit himself, clucking with irritation over Enjolras’ wounds and taking his time to bandage them correctly. The others were given their uniforms to change into, and Combeferre, under the guise of checking Enjolras’ bandages one more time, remained behind, and for only a moment, it was just the two of them.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispered, honest here in the quiet with his closest friend. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get all of you out. I failed you, I….”

Combeferre took Enjolras’ face gingerly in hand, careful of the cut on his cheek but with enough force to make Enjolras look at him. “No. You did not fail, do you hear me? Don’t let this place make you think that. You tried to do the impossible, Enjolras. And something golden happened. Fantine gets to go home. And things might change down here. I’m sure it will be slow. But we have to believe in it now.”

Enjolras nodded, Combeferre’s words making warmth, actual warmth, spread through him, erasing the cold from earlier. It’s not the thick, soupy heat Enjolras remembers from his walk down here, but something much kinder.

Combeferre moved forward, embracing Enjolras with all his might, still careful with the wounds. “We’re all together. You couldn’t have been more courageous, Enjolras. If you were less than you are, you wouldn’t have come down here in the first place. Take some time to rest your spirit, all right? You’ll need it, down here. I’ll lend you some of mine awhile, until then. I know you’re tired.”

Enjolras returned the embrace, letting his tears flow onto Combeferre’s shirt as all the events after he woke up at the barricade came crashing down on his shoulders.

_Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life._ He repeated the words inside his head. The words that got him down here.

“Were you surprised?” Enjolras dug his fingers into Combeferre’s shirt.

“About the magic? A little, though Jehan did tell us that, before.” Combeferre answered Enjolras’ unclear inquiry, knowing exactly what he meant. “That you had that magic in you once I knew that it was a possibility? Not even a little.”

Enjolras smiled, a half bitten-back sob escaping him, and something about those words chased the voices away, for now.

“I suppose we’ll have to start a revolution down here, won’t we?” Enjolras asked the question, and he meant it.

Combeferre pulled back, running his thumbs up and down Enjolras’ cheeks. “I think you already did, my friend. I think you already did.” 

* * *

Fantine was the only one taking the train up, as usual. Well, with Javert, she supposed. He usually sent her with other guards, not bothering to go with her himself unless he had business. She was surprised he didn't just send her walking.

She waited by the railroad stop, holding her single suitcase in her hands and taking in the enormous finality of the situation.

She was leaving. And she was never coming back.

She was going to see Cosette. She was going to hold her daughter in her arms for the first time in years and years and years. She looked around Toulon, noticing the absence of that old, terrible work song she'd heard for so long.

And heard something else.

The melody from the very beginning. The one that unlocked the doors and got Enjolras down here in the first place. The one she used to make Javert let Enjolras sing another song. The song that broke Javert open, written to the same tune.

The prisoners’ voices echoed around the prison, the sound making her very soul feel lighter.

_And all will be harmony, concord, light, joy, and life. _

“Sing it again,” she whispered, not entirely of her own accord.

That was when Fantine saw him, as if the words of the song drew her eyes toward the boy who changed her life.

He stood several yards away in the typical Toulon men’s uniform—tan trousers and a red shirt—his long fair hair tied back with a black ribbon. He waved at her, a small, closed mouth smile on his lips. Near his collarbone there was a number inked into his skin.

9430.

She touched her own, remembering when she got it. It hurt only briefly, and yet the permanence of the mark had bothered her ever since. How could a person be a number, and nothing more?

She dropped her bag, and ran to him.

"Oof," he muttered when she threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him to the ground. He returned the embrace, his fingers digging into the material of her green dress like he didn't quite want to let go.

"Are you sure about this?" she whispered.

He pulled back, and she saw the tears glimmering in his eyes. "Yes. I'll be with my family. And you can finally be with yours. It’s thanks to you I still have my memories, you know. I owe you my very soul, Fantine.”

Fantine shook her head, wiping her eyes as the tears broke free. “No. That’s not true.”

“It is true.” Enjolras spoke with such gravity, with such earnestness, that it hurt her somewhere deep inside her chest. “If not for your courage, if not for you getting the other prisoners to sing, I wouldn’t have gotten to sing that final song at all. You risked your own ability to go above for it. It was breathtaking bravery, for someone you barely know.”

Fantine laughed, the sound cracked down the middle. “I feel like I’ve known you a while, somehow. I don’t know why. There’s such a life in you, Enjolras. I think maybe it reminded me of my Cosette, a bit. Maybe even of myself.” She put both hands on his face, feeling surging up like a crashing wave. “Promise me you’ll hold onto that, down here.”

Enjolras put his hands over hers, giving them a squeeze. “I will. I promise. We’re going to make change down here. You’ll see, Fantine. I promise you will.”

Fantine’s fingers hovered over the prison number tattoo, not wanting to touch the irritated skin. “I’m sorry they did this to you.”

Enjolras waved the concern away, though he blinked several times in rapid succession as though he might cry. “It only hurt a moment. Javert did it himself. He seemed to think one of the other guards might be too rough.” Enjolras touched the several strands of hair hanging near his face that the ribbon couldn’t keep back. “I’m actually wondering about this, though.”

Fantine looked closer, seeing that some of Enjolras’ golden hair had turned silver-white.

“The river,” Fantine breathed. “Did...are your memories clear, still?”

“Clearer. I can see everything in very sharp color. And I even...I feel like I have some that aren’t my own. Memories of the Revolution, memories of other barricades. It’s...strange.”

Fantine glanced back at the now gray-black river in wonder, noticing that there was a strand of gold running down the middle of the dark water, slowly spreading across. She didn’t have time to consider further before the other Amis approached them. They looked aggrieved, but hopeful too. Determined. The one called Courfeyrac approached her, a sealed letter in his hand.

“Would you mind giving this to Marius Pontmercy, when you see him?” Courfeyrac asked, handing the letter over. “I’m sure he’ll be with your daughter, and I want him to hear from me.”

Fantine kissed Courfeyrac’s cheek, placing the letter in her suitcase. “I promise. I will get it to him straight away.”

“He’s an odd one,” Courfeyrac told her, the ghost of a grin on his face. “But he loves your daughter. Be assured of that.”

“Fantine.”

Javert’s voice cut through the air, deep with something like grief. Fantine turned, seeing him only a few steps behind, dressed immaculately as usual.

“It’s time to go,” he said, gesturing her toward the train, which approached with the tell-tale sharp whistle that echoed around Toulon. “Say your goodbyes, please.”

Fantine turned back toward the young men gathered around her, willing herself not to cry. They didn’t need that, now. They needed her courage.

“You are all so brave,” she told them. “Brave above in Paris and down here. And I know…I know you’ll make this place better. If anyone can, it’s all of you.” She pressed each of their hands, holding Enjolras’ in hers when she spoke again. “Javert said letters would be allowed, and I want all of you to write me. I left the piece of paper with Valjean’s addresses on it in my quarters. Promise you’ll write.”

“We will.” Enjolras squeezed her hand. “Go, Fantine. We’ll be all right. Go to Cosette and Valjean.”

Finally, Fantine tore herself away, turning back again once she reached the train. All the Amis stood together, some with their arms around each other’s shoulders and some with their hands clasped together. They all waved at her in a final farewell.

Even here, they were a family, and the thought soothed her mind somewhat.

She stepped onto the train behind Javert, who shut the door behind, and to her surprise sat down in the same compartment with her. The train gave another sharp whistle as it moved forward, and for a moment, neither of them said anything at all.

“Promise me you were sincere about those changes.” Fantine spoke in a whisper, feeling tears fill her eyes again even as her heart lifted. She was going to see Cosette. “Promise me, Javert, for all your promise is worth.”

Javert stared at the floor, his hands folded tightly together. “I was sincere. I also plan to see if I can end the life sentences to this place, but we’ll see how that goes.”

Fantine felt an inexplicable rage fill her up, because he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Look at me when you say all of that. Look at me and swear, Javert. Swear to me those boys won’t suffer so much that they’ll just die in a few years. Far be it from me to beg for anything from you, but please, just tell me that.”

Javert did meet her eyes then, and he looked like a boy. Like a young man, somehow. “I swear, Fantine. I am not lying to you, and I will do what I am able. I am still…trying to sort out my own mind. I was already cracked when Enjolras sang that song of his. Valjean made sure of that. The boy just did the final breaking. And before you ask, I swear I won’t bother or go looking for Valjean again. You have my word on that.”

Fantine shook her head, missing some piece of this puzzle. “What are you talking about?”

“Valjean let me go, when he had the chance to kill me.” Javert spat out the words, clearly still cut deep by the act of mercy. “And then he helped the boy find his way down here.”

“Valjean would never send anyone down to Toulon just to break you, Javert,” Fantine said. “He did help Enjolras, but I’m sure it was with great grief, even if he thought that young man might do you some good. If that was his thought, then he was right.”

Silence seeped between them and Fantine looked out the window, seeing the pieces of broken barricades scattered throughout the tunnel where the railroad track ran, a squeezing pressure tightening around her heart.

“I’m sorry, Fantine.” Javert’s whisper surprised her and didn’t all at once. “I...I did to your daughter what was done to me long ago. I would have taken Valjean from her too, if I could. But he always managed to outsmart me.”

Empathy crept into Fantine’s veins, empathy she didn’t really want to feel, but did nevertheless. “I know you’re sorry. But the truth is I’m sorrier for you, Javert. Even in all my darkness, I remembered what love was. I hope that for you. That you can remember.”

“The boy made sure I did.” Javert looked up, his gray eyes alight with something new. “Only, that love was in the past. I am not sure if I may have it, in the future. Perhaps that is my punishment. And it would be the most just thing of all.”

Fantine’s breath caught in her chest. She was still sad. She was still furious at him. But she reached out toward Javert anyway, clasping just the very tips of his fingers. He looked at her, and he was trembling all over.

“I do not know if I will ever forgive you. I don’t know if I can. But I wish love for you, Javert. In whatever form that may take.”

Javert just barely squeezed her fingers before letting go, looking away again. “You are braver, I see now, than I could ever be. Perhaps I knew it all along. Tell your daughter...tell her I’m sorry. And tell Valjean...” Javert paused, a thousand unnamed emotions flitting across his face. “Tell him thank you.”

* * *

Fantine walked when she reached Paris. She walked because she needed air. She walked because what did she tell her daughter? How did she explain? How did she undo the years of lies Valjean was forced to tell? How did she convince him to tell the truth about his own life?

_None of that matters_, she told herself. Surely. _Surely she will just be overjoyed to see you_. She will be overjoyed to know the truth. All she had of Cosette are memories of her very early life and the stories Valjean had told her, plus a few glimpses.

She hoped Cosette would understand why she left her with the Thenardiers. Valjean had told her long ago the basics of what Fantine suffered in their clutches. It’s the thing she regrets most, but what could she have done? She hadn’t known, then.

She didn’t know her daughter, because life tore them apart. She did know Cosette was kind. She did know Cosette was resilient. She’d learned that much from Valjean. She could do this. She could do _this_, because she’d survived so much more. S

She squared her shoulders, and walked on.

She went to the Rue Plumet address first, smiling when she saw the garden where she knew Cosette spent a lot of her time. She raised her hand to knock on the door, but the door opened at just that moment, revealing a familiar young woman with beautiful chestnut hair, waves of gold undertones visible in the sunlight.

Cosette stared at Fantine and Fantine stared back, all of her practiced words turned to ash. Her daughter. That was her _daughter_, standing right in front of her. Not from a distance. Here.

Then, a word that made Fantine’s heart melt. That made her legs shake. That made her spirit burst until she thought her body might not contain it anymore.

“Maman?”

When Fantine couldn’t quite answer Cosette spoke again, her fingers popping white against the doorknob. “Maman, is that you?”

“Yes.” Fantine choked out the words, feeling a thousand years younger than she had a mere moment ago. “Yes, it’s me.”

Cosette threw her arms around Fantine without a second thought, sobs bursting out of her. Fantine pulled her close, holding her daughter for the first time in so, so long.

“I didn’t mean to leave you,” Fantine whispered, holding on tight. “I never wanted to leave you.”

Cosette just kept crying, her tears soaking Fantine’s green dress. “I saw you watching me, one day. And then I saw you again. And I remembered what you looked like, somehow. I saw you in my dreams. And I wondered if I was seeing things.”

Fantine pulled back, putting her hands on Cosette’s cheeks, hardly able to control her voice. “I couldn’t talk to you. I will explain, I promise you. I promise you. I was in Toulon, I....”

Cosette seized Fantine’s hands as if she couldn’t bear to not touch her mother. “That horrible place? Papa likes to think I don’t know the stories, but I do. He said you were away, in prison, and that I couldn’t see you because of a rule set down by the man in charge. But he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t tell me you were there. Oh, Maman. I’m so sorry.”

A broken sob burst free from Fantine’s mouth. Cosette was glad to see her. Cosette wasn’t angry at her.

Tears welled up in Cosette’s eyes, and Fantine pulled her daughter’s hands toward her, holding them close to her chest. “I’ll never leave you again, Cosette. Not ever. I’m so sorry about everything that happened before. I’m sorry you couldn’t know the truth, but you will now.”

Cosette’s mention of him must have drawn Valjean’s attention, because he called her name in alarm before appearing in the doorway. He started when he saw Fantine, and Fantine almost laughed at the look on his face.

“Javert let me go,” Fantine said in explanation before Valjean could say anything. “Or well...I will have to tell you the longer story, but you were right. About sending Enjolras down with his music. Javert let him select one person to go free. And he chose me.”

Valjean covered his mouth with his hands, and Fantine noticed that he was looking gaunter than usual.

“So, he’s down there with his friends?” Valjean asked. “They’re together?”

Fantine nodded. “That at least, I can take comfort in.” Fantine turned toward Cosette, who looked confused. “There was a young man your Papa met on the barricades, when he came to help Marius, that came down to Toulon looking for his friends. He gave up his own freedom for mine.”

More tears fell from Cosette’s eyes at those words. “Was it Enjolras? Marius was telling me about him. And Courfeyrac, and the rest, when he showed up at the door after Papa saved him.” Cosette reached out for Valjean’s hand, clasping it tight. “What will happen to them?”

“The man who runs Toulon, Javert, he promised to make some changes.” Fantine paused, meeting Valjean’s eyes. “I think he was honest about it. I’ll tell you everything, once we’re inside.”

Valjean looked a bit alarmed at those words, and Fantine knew just how hard it would be for him to tell secrets he’d kept buried for years. But they were going to be a family now—all of them, whether Valjean protested or not—and they needed to start with honesty. They had to.

There was so much to be told, there was so much to explain—Cosette didn’t even know the truth about Valjean’s imprisonment, or his real name and probably not much about Javert, other than stories about Toulon. But in that moment, Cosette seemed to sense what they all needed. She pulled both Valjean and Fantine to her, and three of them caught up in one embrace.

“My parents...” Cosette whispered. “All of us, together. Oh I....I’ve _dreamt _of this day. How thrilled Marius will be, when he hears.”

Fantine didn’t have a thought to spare toward what Cosette’s suitor might think of her having not one, but two convict parents, but she remembered the letter in her pocket, she remembered the warmth in Courfeyrac’s eyes when he spoke of his friend, and told herself if it would be all right.

She thought of Enjolras, and she hugged her daughter tighter, grasping at the fabric of Valjean’s coat with her fingers.

She was home. 

* * *

** Epilogue **

** June, 1837. Five years after the Events in Toulon.  **

The last few years have been the best of my life. I spend most days with my daughter, the kindest, most generous person I have ever known. We have made up for lost time, and two years ago, on June 6, 1835, I said hello to my first granddaughter.

It’s not something I thought I’d ever be able to say.

I spend time with Valjean in his garden, watching him grow things with his own hands. He may never be able to use his real name outside our home, but with Cosette and Marius and me, he is able to be himself. We make a strange pair, but he’s the dearest friend I’ve ever had.

The years in Toulon give me nightmares, and that will never go away, but I live in more comfort now than I could have ever imagined. Valjean and Marius insisted I never work again, but I take on seamstress work anyway, because I like to keep busy, and the instinct to take care of myself is so ingrained I can’t escape from it. Half of the money I make with that I slip to women in need or to gamins on the street, but then, they need it more than I do.

I tell Enjolras’ story to everyone who will listen. I tell the story over and over and over again.

Why? You might ask. Why when the end is such a tragedy?

Because it isn’t just a tragedy. It was the beginning of something.

It was the beginning of a new life for me. For Cosette. For Valjean. The coming of spring, if you will.

Valjean, who once tried to sneak out of the house a few weeks after Cosette was married, insisting we didn’t need him anymore. Marius and Cosette had moved out of his grandfather’s, you see, to live in a home of their own, all but demanding we both move in with them. Whatever concerns Marius might have had about both of his wife’s parents being convicts were never expressed—I suppose Valjean saving his life and seeing Courfeyrac’s letter, which must have contained a lot about me, likely wiped away all protest.

_We are a family,_ I told Valjean then, fiercely taking his hand. _We are, and that includes you. _

_Cosette has you, and she has Marius, _Valjean said. _She doesn’t need me. _

_You aren’t even going to give her the chance to know all of you, after she just found out the truth? _I knew guilt worked on Valjean, and even if I didn’t like using that tactic, it worked. _Now, when we can all finally be honest with one another? I paused then, tears welling up in my eyes. I need you, Valjean. You’re the only friend I have._

Valjean squeezed my hand then, tears breaking free from his own eyes.

_All right_, he whispered. _All right. _

If I hadn’t been there, I fear he might have gone off to die.

People still tell stories about Toulon. Except now, the stories have changed. There are stories about Enjolras and his song, rumors about the River of Forgetting and how it lost its power. I told a few gamins, you see, and the gamins told everyone else. There is one gamin in particular, one who fought on the barricades called Gavroche, who likes the stories best. He’s almost grown-up now, and he lets Valjean or I help him sometimes, including helping him find work so he can make money on his own. When he was younger, I’d find him sleeping in our sitting room in winter, the scar from the bullet that struck him at the barricades visible on his arm.

Now, there are stories about Javert, the infamous Chief Guard, arguing for the rights of the prisoners he manages. I saw him one day in the street outside the police headquarters, a sheaf of papers in his hands. He nodded at me and I nodded at him, but we didn’t speak.

Changes have been made. Conditions have improved. Not just in Toulon, but in normal prisons, too.

Except for one thing.

No matter what Javert has done, he has not yet succeeded in undoing the life sentences in Toulon. There have been rumors lately, about the government pardoning the insurgents from the 1832 rebellions, but there’s been no proof. Not all of them ended up in Toulon, of course, but the ones I knew had, and I wondered if that pardon came, whether it would apply to them.

Except today, when I came home, I found a letter on my doorstep.

I opened it, finding one short sentence written in neat, exacting handwriting.

_And all will be harmony, concord, light, joy, and life. _

_Soon, the locks might be undone. _

_~ E_

I hold the letter to my chest now, feeling hope flutter upward, a hope I’ve never been able to let go of. I have stacks of letters in a trunk beneath my bed. Letters from each of those boys I left behind. Cosette and Marius and Valjean have them too, and we read them aloud to each other by the fire, hoping hoping _hoping_ they might join us in the above world one day.

“Maman?” Cosette comes around to the front from the garden she shares with Valjean, apparently having heard my footsteps.

“Look,” I say, showing her the letter. “What we’ve been waiting for may finally happen.”

Cosette looks at the letter in awe, loving these young men she’s never met in person. “We’ll keep them here, we have the room. They will have to share rooms but that’s no matter, of course. Papa and Marius will be so pleased.”

I put my arm around my daughter, pulling her close as we both look at the letter again.

I swear I hear a melody float into the air nearby, though perhaps it’s just a memory. Perhaps it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Or perhaps the music is written into the letter itself, the words lit gold when I hold it up to the sunlight. The gold forms notes. The notes float up off the paper and above our heads, that ancient magic from Toulon swirling into the air of Paris.

I knew those young men for a day or two, but they have changed my life. There’s a sketch of Enjolras on my wall, a strand of his golden hair turned silver-white from the river’s water. He and his friends are a part of my family, far away as they are.

“Come home to us.” I whisper the words into the world, and they sound like a song as they echo back in my ear. “Come home.”

“Come home.” Cosette repeats my words, and the echo grows clearer.

The notes above our heads burst into a brilliant cloud of gold, six words coming out to the tune of a lullaby.

_Harmony, concord, light, joy, and life. _


End file.
